That Dear Perfection
by dietplainlite
Summary: Continuation of the story That's Not My Name by Nocturnias (commissioned by Nocturnias.) When Sherlock goes to Molly for help with his Moriarty problem, he discovers he doesn't quite know her as well as he thought. Warnings for mild torture, dub con/non con, non consensual drug use
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This story is a continution of That's Not My Name by nocturnias, commissioned by Nocturnias. Please read that story first. (/)s(/)7778735(/)1(/)That-s-Not-My-Name**

**I don't own these characters, yada yada yada. **

For a brief moment as he surfaced from the depths of the sedative, he believed that he was in his boyhood bed, in the room with the big windows facing the duck pond. But when he opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a bed in a very plain room with white washed walls. He was still incredibly groggy and found even the smallest movement difficult, as though he were wading through tar. Suddenly Molly Hooper's face swam into view, looking down on him with those lovely brown, concerned eyes. Ah yes, his Molly. The one who would save him.

But as his vision cleared a bit, he saw the unfamiliar sharpness in her eyes, and it all came rushing back. No, this was not his Molly, was it? Not Molly at all.

He had never felt so alone in his entire life.

"There you are, sleepyhead," she said. It was hard to reconcile her sweet, soft voice with that cold look. She gave his cheek a sharp pat that bordered on a slap. "I was beginning to think I'd given you the wrong dose. Though it was convenient to have you dead asleep on the ferry. Just left you in the boot and did a little sightseeing on deck."

"Where are we?" he croaked. It seemed to be early evening but he wasn't sure. He looked around the room, but there were no clues to discern its location. The lack of street sounds indicated they were in the country. No ocean smell or sounds.

"The Moriarty ancestral home. Not nearly so grand as yours, I'm sure, but it does have its charms. One of those being that it's five miles from the nearest neighbor and uninhabited unless Jim or I need it."

He shook his head to shake off some of the grogginess. He tried to rub his eyes but his hand was stopped not long after it left the mattress. His wrists and ankles were bound by padded medical restraints connected to thick nylon straps. He moved each limb to test them and they seemed to be connected to each other underneath the mattress. He was also completely nude.

"Yes, dearest," she said to his unspoken question. "I thought it was best to keep you put for now." She sat on the bed, just out of reach of his left hand.

Whatever drug she had used on him (Ketamine? GHB? Rohypnol?) was acting as a far more effective restraint than the physical ones, though, as he found it incredibly difficult to focus, but he knew he needed to get her talking so he could figure out what the hell she was up to.

"I still don't understand. Are you really a pathologist?"

"Of course I am, dummy! You can't learn how to slice up a corpse like that on the Internet. Well, I suppose you can, but no, I've always been Morbid Maggie, poking around at dead things. I've always been extremely useful to Jim in pulling off murders when he bothered to get his hands dirty."

Sherlock fought down a wave of nausea at how blithely she described her role in Moriarty's web. He was more horrified than he had been that brief moment at the pool when he had thought that John could be the evil mastermind.

"Did you go work at St. Bart's just for me?"

She smiled. "Oh no, that was all a happy coincidence. I was already at St. Bart's before you started using the lab, remember? Just imagine the look on Jim's face the day I said to him 'Jim, you remember that little boy that worked out that Carl Powers was murdered? Well guess who walked into my lab today, acting like he owned the place?" She giggled and he cringed, hearing a sound he associated with sweet little Molly Hooper coming from this stranger.

"Don't get me wrong, though," she continued. She got up to check his restraints thoroughly and did a quick appraisal of his vitals. "We came to London to deal with you. Jim had been keeping tabs on you for some time, though he did somewhat despair that all your talent would go to waste because you couldn't keep away from drugs. But then you solved a murder that one of his people had done, and then another, and he knew it was time to play. And now it's time for me to play. I'm so glad Jim let me keep you. I've always been his weakness. Funny that he should have worked out yours so easily and you never worked out his. I suppose he is better, in the end." She smiled almost sadly and reached for something underneath the bed.

"Is that—"

"Your riding crop? No, this one was a gift, from Ms. Adler? She really loved my good girl Molly act. Boy did we have a laugh about you, though. About how even after everything you ran off to play the knight in shining armor." She stares at the riding crop contemplatively for a moment. "Of course, it was also a bit disappointing, knowing that even the great Sherlock Holmes is ruled by his prick."

"Did she tell you that I fucked her until she could hardly walk? Willingly, I might add." The words came out before he could think. He was flushed with sudden anger at the knowledge that that woman had once again gotten one over on him.

_Thwack._

The riding crop met the top of his thigh. It stung excruciatingly and he had a feeling that the blow wasn't close to full strength. But the pain was followed by a small jolt of clarity. This could be useful. The adrenaline from the pain could help the drug metabolize more quickly.

"Oh, does it bother you? Knowing that she had me without having to tie me down first? Well, there was a bit of that, but there were definitely no drugs involved."

_Thwack_.

This time the blow was dealt to the other thigh. He looked down to see two identical angry red stripes.

"Top marks for symmetry, Molly."

"Maggie!"

_Thwack._

"Do forgive me, it took me ages to remember your alias, too, if you'll recall. Always in the background."

_Thwack._ This time on his chest, dangerously close to his nipple.

"Did she tell you about my tongue? About how I made her beg for it? Did you know that Irene Adler tastes just like a sun warmed Georgia peach? Have you ever had one of those, Molly?"

"Maggie!"

_Thwack._

"Maggie!

_Thwack_.

"Mag—Oh!" She froze, riding crop aimed at his thigh again, mouth open. Her already flushed face became even more livid. "You brilliant bastard," she said in an awed whisper. Slowly she lowered the riding crop to her side, walked over to a table in the corner and set it down. She took a moment to smooth her hair and straighten her clothes, then opened a drawer. She took out a tiny vial and a fresh syringe.

"I was really hoping we wouldn't have to resort to this again, but since you haven't yet accepted that you won't outsmart us, then back to dreamland you go." She moved back to the bed, inserting the syringe into the vial and pulling the stopper.

"Mo—Maggie. That's really not necessary. I'll do what you want. I promise. And I'll even give you and Jim a running start after."

"After?" she said, as she gently swabbed his bicep with an antiseptic wipe. "What makes you think there will be an after?" She smiled sweetly, eyes hard as diamonds, as she jabbed the needle in and pushed in the plunger.


	2. Chapter 2

This time, as he clawed his way up from the depths of drug, he had one vague memory (was it a memory or a delusion?) of what had occurred while he was under the influence. Moriarty was there, with Molly, standing by the window. They had been arguing, perhaps, but it was hard to tell because their voices kept rising and falling dramatically in pitch and their words sped up and down in pace. Auditory hallucinations, of course, but it made it impossible to decipher what they were saying. He must have made a noise or a sudden movement because at one point they stopped talking and looked over at him. God he had been so stupid not to see it. Those big brown eyes in those sweet little faces. They had even stood right next to each other in the lab that day, and while he hadn't had any reason to suspect anything at the time, why hadn't it occurred to him later?

Because no matter how much he observed Molly, he had never really seen her, had he?

As he struggled for lucidity, it hit him again just how big an error that had been.

He took inventory as his vision cleared. Night. They were in a different room with a crackling fire. He was sitting. Fully clothed. Not his clothes. No shoes. Tied to the legs and arms of a rather heavy chair with nylon ropes. The bindings weren't incredibly tight or intricate. He moved a bit to test them and heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked.

He looked to his right, and there she was, curled up in a much more comfortable looking chair, a drowsing puppy on her lap. She was holding a pistol. Her hands were steady.

"I've bound you relatively loosely so you'll be more comfortable," came the soft voice. "Don't make me regret it."

"So what is this?" his voice came out creakily at first. He cleared his throat. "A quiet evening 'round the fire? Just the psychopath and her captive?"

She smiled sadly in response, then leaned forward to place the puppy, a brindled ball of wrinkles that might one day work itself into a mastiff, into a basket with three of its littermates. She watched the puppies as they wriggled around a bit to make room for the interloper. The look on her face was almost what he was used to seeing on this woman. Then she leaned back again, turning sideways in the chair so that she was facing him. She tucked her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, pistol still in hand, but thankfully uncocked for the moment. Her hair was loose and fell around her shoulders and arms like a shawl and her brown eyes gleamed.

"Want to see the papers from London?" she asked.

"Why? I can guess the headlines. 'Boffin Fraud Disappears, Kidnaps Meek Pathologist.' 'Fake Genius Now Fugitive.'"

"Not bad," she said, hopping up to fetch a stack of papers from a side table. "Actually better than some of the real ones. I thought you'd at least want to see the photos. There are some killer ones of John and Lestrade. Still not sure if either of them is even out of questioning. Oh, here's a related story you'll love. 'Meltdown at the Yard: Dozens of Convictions at Risk Due to Help from Fake Genius Holmes.' I think I'll save that one for later. Oh, and poor Rich Brook is going to have an op-ed in the _Telegraph_ tomorrow. 'My Brush With "Genius." In his own words. She paced in front of the fire, flipping through the pages of the _Daily Mail_, muttering something about a photo of Mrs. Hudson.

By this point, he was almost glad for his bonds, because he wasn't sure what he would do if he were free and could disarm her. He didn't know if he could stop with just knocking her out and running. He could picture himself putting his hands around her neck and squeezing, or at the very least, shaking her by the shoulders until her teeth rattled and she begged him to stop. He was enraged, not just at what she was saying, or at the mess he'd gotten into because of this woman and her brother. What made him want to choke the life out of her was the fact that he had trusted her, implicitly, openly, fully. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on taking deep breaths, though he found himself unable to regulate his breathiing.

She looked at him sharply, drawn out of her reverie by his gasping breaths, and was at his side in a moment.

"Oh, no. No no no. It's okay," she said, laying her cool hands on his cheeks. She brushed his hair back from his forehead and kissed it gently. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Leave me alone," he said, sobbing. It seemed crying had won out.

"Shhh," she said, giving him another gentle kiss, this time on the temple. "It's just the drug wearing off. It heightens your emotions. "She pulled a handkerchief from her jumper sleeve and wiped the tears from his face. "You'll be okay soon. As long as you behave I won't have to give you anymore. "

"What the hell did you give me!" he yelled. It was enough to elicit a whimper from several of the puppies by the fire. She went to tend to them, shushing them in much the same manner as she had Sherlock.

"Something Jim has been working on. Or, well, Jim's people. He's not as interested in chemistry as you are." She delivered this to the puppies, petting them and rearranging them gently. "A strong tranquilizer that still leaves most of the motor skills intact. Like Rohypnol but not as paralytic and longer lasting. None of the possible aggressiveness of Ketamine. Not as dangerous as GHB. They're still working out the kinks, but you've responded to it gorgeously. You even dressed yourself earlier. Though I couldn't really get you to eat."

"You know I don't eat when I'm working," he said.

She looked up at him. "Yes, but even you have your limits. I reckon it's been at least five days, right? It's a delicate balance, keeping your strength up while keeping your mental clarity. Supper's still in there. Cold pheasant, new potatoes. Baby carrots. Not the most ideal finger food but you'll forgive me if I can't quite trust you with a knife and fork. Or even a spoon." She got up and went over to him, stopping to pick up her gun on the way. She took out a small pocket knife and worked it underneath the rope at his left wrist.

"There are snipers and trackers on the property. On the road. Throughout the countryside." She started sawing slightly on the rope. "But even if you get past me and manage to elude any one of them, your friends will be dead before you get back to London. Understood?"

"I don't—"

"Don't even say it. We both know that's a lie."

He gazed at her, at the knife, the gun in her other hand. He knew he could incapacitate her in seconds and so did she.

"Understood."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was mostly lucid by the time they were seated at the rustic dining table. He almost wished that he weren't. It would definitely have made the situation easier to accept.

To an outsider, it would at first glance look like a couple having a quiet, simple dinner by candlelight. But closer inspection would lead one to wonder why the two were seated at opposite ends of a table that sat six. The flameless candles wouldn't cause much concern; it was fairly common these days. However, when combined with the fact that there was no silverware, and that the china and glassware were, in fact, plastic, it might lead an astute observer to wonder if the two were just play acting, or if one of them were dangerous.

The gun next to the young lady's plate would confirm those suspicions, though a really astute observer would conclude that the most dangerous person in the room was the unarmed man.

Sherlock looked across the table at her. With her hair down and her face lit by the candlelight, she looked no older than eighteen. Her white blouse with a Peter Pan collar added to the effect. He wondered if she were intentionally creating this illusion of innocence to try to lull him into letting his guard down. She picked at her food daintily, and he ate enthusiastically. He hated that he was so hungry but she was right; he really did need to keep his strength up.

He supposed he should say something complimentary. He refused to compliment her appearance so he settled on the food.

"The food is excellent," he said, begrudgingly as he wiped his hands on his napkin.

She smiled, dimpling prettily. "The pheasant was shot on our land, and the vegetables are from a neighboring farm. The bread from a bakery in the village." She sighed. "I wish I could be here more often. "

"Why don't you?" he asked, slowly. He was starting to feel a bit drowsy and was beginning to suspect that she had drugged his food. Nothing major, from what he could tell. Some form of benzodiazepine. It wouldn't have a strong effect on him. He used to use them when he was coming down from cocaine. The only issue with them now was that in his mind they were inextricably linked to cocaine, so using them might cause cravings. He blinked his eyes and shook his head a bit.

"Feeling sleepy?" she said. "Don't worry. Just a small dose of Valium to take the edge off a little. You may still be feeling some mood swings coming down from the other drugs. But I'm sure you'd already guessed what it is, hmm?" She took a tiny sip of her wine. "And to answer your question, I stayed in London to be around you. But now you're here with me, aren't you?" She wiped her mouth primly and stood up, making her way slowly to him.

"Molly—"

"Maggie, dear," she said, the hard gleam returning to her eyes.

"I'd rather continue calling you Molly, if that's okay."

She was next to him now, and reached out to run her fingers through his hair. He flinched back at first, but she grabbed a handful and leaned in to growl in his ear. "You'd best be cooperative. Do I have to remind you of the consequences if you act up?"

"No," he said, closing his eyes and allowing her to continue her ministrations.

The sweet tone returned to her voice as she ran first one hand and then the other through his hair. He hated that it felt somewhat good. As much as he avoided human contact, he did love to have his hair played with and his scalp scratched. The Valium relaxed him enough to make it pleasurable no matter who was doing it.

"You don't know how badly I've wanted to do this," she said.

"You mean you didn't take advantage when you had me incapacitated?"

Molly had the audacity to look hurt at that statement and gave his hair a sharp tug. "I'm not a complete monster. I didn't violate you. I barely touched you. Like I said before, you were able to dress yourself and everything, all I had to do was tell you what to do. No, dear, you'll be fully conscious when the time comes."

"When the time comes for what?"

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighed, running her hand down his cheek, grazing one finger along his neck and settling her small hand on his chest, right above his heart. "When the time comes for me to deflower you."

He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "I'm sure I told you that The Woman took care of that task."

She laughed, a trilling giggle, then slapped him hard.

"Don't lie to me. Jim had a talk with Miss Adler. Seems you left Pakistan as innocent as when you arrived. You didn't even give her a heroic goodbye kiss. Now apologize for lying to me."

"Not until you apologize for lying to me," he said, eyes locked with hers defiantly.

She slapped him again, hard enough to make him see stars.

He kept his face turned from her. "I am sorry, Molly. I shouldn't have lied, and it was ungentlemanly of me to lie about Miss Adler."

She softened immediately, and cupped his injured cheek in her hand. "Push your chair back from the table."

"Why?"

Molly pulled her hand back to strike him again and he quickly complied. She stood in front of him, standing between his legs. She was so short that her breasts were right at eye level. He noted that she was not wearing a bra underneath the thin white shirt. He could just see the dusky outlines of her nipples. She stepped closer, one leg on the chair so that her knee was in direct contact with his groin. He swallowed and looked up at her, fighting an insane urge to place his hands on her hips. The damned Valium was doing his head in more than he figured it would. He was unable to separate what was happening now from the occasional flashes of physical attraction that he felt for Molly. He had always been able to suppress them by refocusing or by verbally pushing her way, but now he couldn't focus and insulting her was proving to be quite hazardous. He reminded himself that even though this person in front of him shared the same deliciously tiny body and lovely face, the Molly he knew did not exist. This was a mad woman. The sister of a mad man. An accomplice to murder and who knew what other crimes. But damn if he didn't respond when she leaned in and gently kissed his forehead, his eyelid, his cheekbone, and then his mouth.

It was barely a kiss. She didn't lick or suck or pry. Just a lingering, closed mouth kiss, little more than a peck. But it sent a jolt through him that made his eyes fly open. When she pulled away, she gave him a look that was so loving and sad that for a moment he could see the old Molly. He wondered which one was indeed real.

"I think that's enough for tonight," she said. "I am going to have to restrain you again, but if you're good while I'm putting you to bed, I won't have to drug you. I'm not really sure how it will react with the Valium, so we'd best not have to test it, okay?"

She held out her hand. He took it, noticing how his hand absolutely swallowed hers. His mind was racing as fast as it could with the impairment of the sedative, but he could not figure out how he could get out of this without endangering the lives of his friends. If he were compliant with her wishes, she might get bored with him and let him go. But her infatuation with him might cause that to backfire, and she would keep him around indefinitely. He would be obedient tonight, though. The Valium would wear off soon, leaving him fully sober and able to really think for the first time since she had kidnapped him.

Molly allowed him to change into pyjamas and go to the loo before telling him to lie on the bed. She secured the restraints on his wrists and ankles and covered him with a thick blanket.

"I would tell you a bedtime story, but that's more Jim's area," she said. She ran her fingers through his hair one last time and gave him another chaste kiss on the lips. "I'm in the next room if you need anything."

He nodded, and followed her with his eyes as she left. She turned off the light, and Sherlock stared into the dark.


	4. Chapter 4

She came into his room just as the sun was up, carrying a stack of clothing. He was awake.

"You get to go outside today!" she said. "Jim's idea. Or, I guess really, Jim's orders." She rolled her eyes and set the clothing down on a chair in the corner.

"Doesn't want me getting soft, does he? Or does he just want me to see for myself how desperate my situation is?"

"Hmm, probably a bit of both," she said. She came over to remove his bonds, starting with his feet. She rubbed his ankles vigorously after releasing them. The bonds hadn't been tight but it had been trying staying in the same position all night. "Did you sleep at all?" she asked as she removed the restraints from his wrists.

"I dozed for a bit, until the drugs wore off." He rubbed his own wrists and shook his arms out.

"And the wheels were turning the rest of the night, I bet, but you're still in the same spot, aren't you? Well, you'll be quite stiff, so a walk will do you good. I'll pop out while you change." She stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder. "There's nothing in here you could use as a concealed weapon, even if you were foolish enough to try something. Jim went over it thoroughly." She left him standing by the bed, legs shaking and sore.

Sherlock went to the window. It was an old sash window; the ropes were broken and it was painted shut. The glass was so heavily rippled that it was like looking out into a rainstorm. His view was of an ancient grove of apple trees and a hay field. He hadn't seen the outside of the farmhouse or all of its rooms but he was certain it was at around three centuries old. He wondered if it had housed the Moriarty secrets for that long or if it were a more recent acquisition. The only conclusion he'd been able to draw last night as to his current situation was that he needed to keep Molly talking.

The clothes were new and of good quality. Plain cotton t-shirt, grey cable knit jumper, navy work trousers, wool socks and heavy work boots. He put them on quickly and sat down on the bed.

Molly came back in a few minutes later. She smiled widely.

"Oh I knew that color would suit you! I chose it myself. I hope it's not itchy. Some people can't handle wool, even cashmere."

He forced himself to smile back at her. "It's very lovely. Thank you."

"You'll be able to have a bath when we return. It'll take that long for the boiler to heat enough water. No shower, I'm afraid, just a big old claw foot tub. Jim has all the money he ever needs but he won't modernize this place. Says he likes roughing it." She ushered him out the door.

"Did you two grow up here?"

"Until Jim was eleven. Then he went off to school. Sussex at first, then later outside of Dublin."

"Your parents had the means for that?" He asked as she led him into a breakfast room off the kitchen, where there was porridge and fresh fruit waiting.

She looked at him and shook her head. "Sherlock, Jim is brilliant, remember. He won scholarships. He did everything himself, forging Mum and Da's signatures. You could have knocked them over with a feather when he showed them the award letter and told them when he was leaving." She looked down at her bowl and stirred her porridge. "I hated him for leaving me behind."

Before he could probe for more information, she suddenly brightened and shook her head. "I'm getting all melancholy on you. That's no way to treat a guest. Eat up! I suppose it probably reminds you of school but it really is the best breakfast, isn't it? It's not drugged. You're not really great company when you're sedated." She ate enthusiastically while he tried his best to choke some of it down. Porridge did remind him of school. It reminded him of all the worst parts. He gave up and concentrated on the fresh fruit and cream instead.

"Will it be only the two of us on this excursion?" he asked.

"Yes, though we'll be watched. Constantly. "

"Cameras."

"Yes. Good ones with advanced zooming and panning capabilities. Plus, you know, the snipers."

"Cameras inside the house as well."

"Why don't you sort that out yourself? You're going to get rusty if I give you all the information." She smiled sweetly and began clearing the table, even though he wasn't finished. Yes, just like school. He decided to change the subject, but only slightly.

"Sussex. Where he met Carl Powers."

"Yes, he was a town boy. Jim told me all about him when he was home at Christmas. Wretched bully of a boy."

"Did you help him plan Carl Powers' murder?"

"I think it's time we got outside if we want to avoid the rain."

The sky did look ominously heavy and there was a brisk breeze. He wished for his coat. What had she done with it?

They walked down the front path and through a rickety gate that was mounted between two rowan trees. He looked back at the house. Eighteenth century or earlier, made of grey stone. Their rooms were in a more recent addition to the house and were situated directly above the sitting room. It was the only part of the house with more than one floor. The rest of the house was a long, low structure with a series of identical windows running its length, interrupted in the middle by a rather short door. Judging from difference in the color of the stone, the two story "wing" of the house was a nineteenth century addition and the door in the older portion of the house used to be the main entrance. The front garden was a riot of wildflowers, but it was tended even if it wasn't landscaped.

They turned right onto a dirt lane and made their way past the grove of apple trees and into the open country. He looked up at his bedroom window. If he tried to escape from that route, he doubted he would make it to the ground before a bullet would destroy his heart or brain. The thick, gnarled branches of the apple trees were good cover for a sniper.

A stone barn came into view behind the house. Despite its looking older than the house itself, it boasted steel doors and a new steel roof.

"Ah," he said. "Barracks."

"Very good, Sherlock. Even world class sharpshooters have to eat and sleep."

They continued walking, the dirt lane taking them directly into the hay field.

"You lease the fields to neighboring farmers."

"Yes, of course. Hold my hand."

"What?"

"I'm certain you heard me. Hold my hand."

He had no choice and she obviously wasn't going to explain, so he took her left hand with his right, fingers intertwined, noting again how small it felt in his. They walked in silence and he tried to ignore the surprisingly pleasant feeling of her thumb absently caressing his thumb. When they came to the crest of a small rise, they stopped. He could just make out another group of buildings on the horizon: a small cottage with a thatched roof, a barn twice the size of the cottage, and a crumbling silo. Their nearest neighbor. This is what she'd brought him out to see.

"Will we be heading in the other direction? Or through the fields?"

"No, I think you've seen enough for the day. It's really more of the same, whatever direction you go. "


	5. Chapter 5

With only the preamble of a low rumble of thunder, the sky suddenly opened up, soaking them within a minute. Molly tugged on his hand and started back toward the house. The lane became a quagmire before they'd gotten halfway there, making Sherlock thankful for the heavy boots. Molly wore a similar pair but her long skirt was impeding her progress by sticking to her legs. Sherlock was tempted to scoop her up and carry her back but was afraid that it might be mistaken for an attack by whoever had their sights trained on him. Finally she picked up the hem of her skirt and ran the rest of the way, revealing more of her pale shapely legs than he'd ever seen.

They stumbled inside and Molly shed her jumper and skirt in the foyer. She went directly to the fireplace to stoke the fire and add more wood. Sherlock stood in the doorway, water dripping from his hair and clothes, completely unsure of what to do. It was a strange feeling. She was wearing nothing but a camisole and knickers, both of the same blue and white skull print. He wanted to avert his eyes but he was fascinated by how absolutely unselfconscious she was. Molly Hooper, who was sometimes unable to speak and look him in the eye at the same time, was practically naked in front of him and didn't care.

When the fire blazed to her satisfaction, she looked over her shoulder at him. "Sherlock! Don't just stand there gaping. Get out of those clothes and sit by the fire. There's a blanket in the chair. I'm going to draw your bath. Don't bother the puppies," she jerked her head toward the corner, where the puppies were currently being nursed by their enormous mother.

"Don't worry," he said, smiling warily at the dog, which merely yawned at him and drooled. He stripped out of his wet cloths as soon as she was out of sight, wrapped himself in the blanket and sat in front of the fire, shivering.

Molly returned shortly, wearing a thick bathrobe. She tossed him a towel for his hair and sat down in her chair from the night before.

"It'll take forever to fill up. I always run it just hot because if I don't, it's cold by the time it's full. It's kind of decadent, though, getting to sit in a bath up to your chin. Jim says we're roughing it out here but I never get to do that in my flat. It's just got a shower. "

He stared at the fire, and heard her get up and kneel behind him. She picked up the towel and started drying his hair, rubbing vigorously while she continued talking.

"Mum never let us take baths during storms, because of lightning coming through the pipes. And of course our plumbing is all copper. Turns out it's pretty rare, but I imagine it'd be an incredible way to go. Would make for an interesting autopsy, too. I've had more than one radio in the bathtub death since I started at Bart's. One was accidental, the other was the wife. That was before you came along. Greg solved that one on his own, though. Wait, no, that one was all Donovan. The husband was beating her. Donovan came very close to testifying that it was accidental, but she was up for her promotion and needed to play by the rules. The wife didn't get any jail time, though. Temporary insanity and all that."

She finished with his hair and settled next to him, legs curled underneath her and leaning on his shoulder. He could hear the water running in the lavatory underneath the sound of the fire and the rain and thunder.

"Where are your parents now?" he asked after several minutes.

"Dead, of course. Da when I was fifteen. Farming accident. Mum a year later. She just kind of wasted away. Couldn't live without him and I wasn't worth staying around for. I was Jim's ward after that."

"So all of that about your dad being sick. Looking sad when he thought you couldn't see. All lies."

"I'm going to go see about the tub." And she was gone. He followed her, assuming that it was likely full. She was just turning off center mounted tap when he came in.

The room was at the back of the house and only had one window, at nearly ceiling height. Probably added for ventilation when indoor plumbing had been introduced. The only light came from dim sconces set on opposite sides of the medicine cabinet, and a large pillar candle on a table next to the tub. She sat on the edge of the tub and ran her hand through the water to test it.

"Just right, I take it?"

"Of course," she said. "You can just pop right in."

There was no use protesting so he dropped the blanket. Her eyes roamed over every inch of him before she nodded and got up. "You're learning quickly."

"That's what I do," he said as he stepped into the tub. It was hot enough that his skin would become red, but it wouldn't scald. It would be perfect in a few minutes. He sank into it and couldn't suppress a soft groan as the warm water caressed his sore and frigid muscles. He didn't even care about his nakedness. She had already seen him, after all. His mind flashed to the image of her breasts beneath her wet camisole but he pushed it away instantly. She got two flannels from a cabinet and sat back down on the edge of the tub.

"I put in Epsom salts. Lavender." She dipped the flannel in the water and began cleaning his face. "You've got mud on your face. I think it's even behind your ears."

"We did kick up a lot while running," he said and sighed as she gently cleaned behind his ears.

"True," she said. She dropped the dirty flannel on the floor and dipped the clean one in the water. She started at his and made her way down his chest. As soon as she leaned over to get the shoulder furthest from her, he grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her into the tub, one arm locked around her and the other in her hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her head back. Her eyes blazed at him. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she said through gritted teeth.

He tightened his grip on her hair. "There are no cameras in here, and no direct line of sight. These walls are at least a foot thick and are solid stone covered in ancient plaster. You'd need a bunker buster to get through them."

"Very good," she said, jaw set. "But are you sure there aren't any listening devices? " His hold loosened slightly. "And even if there aren't, it wouldn't take them long to realize something was wrong. Is the satisfaction you'd get from killing me worth it?"

Sherlock let go of her hair and pushed her away. She didn't get out of the tub, just laughed and took off her robe, dropping it over the side.

"Well that made quite a mess. I've half a mind to make you mop it up when we're through here." She leaned back at the other end of the tub, her body on full display. She reached out with her foot to the tap and turned on the hot water. They stared at each other while the water ran. She turned it off the same way when the tub was sufficiently refilled, giving him a brief view of pink beneath her neatly trimmed pubic hair. "Are you ready to finish your bath, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

She came toward him, kneeling between his legs. He looked her in the eye, studiously avoiding her breasts and her taught nipples and the droplets of water and tendrils of her hair clinging to all of it.

"This is a much easier angle. Thank you for insisting I join you, Sherlock."

"Anytime," he said as he handed her the flannel that she had dropped when he grabbed her.

She took a bar of hand-made soap from the table next to the tub and began soaping her hands. "It's made of goats milk and has fresh lavender and orange zest in it." She held it under his nose to smell and put it back on its dish. She started lathering his shoulders in slow circles. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He had just retrieved a particularly boring file on irrigation statistics in Surrey (one he used often when he needed to suppress sexual urges) when he felt a sharp pain in his right nipple. He jerked his head up and opened his eyes, meeting her gaze again.

"Don't go wandering off in that mind of yours, Sherlock. I want you right. Here."

At this point it was hard to even watch her lather her hands without picturing them wrapped around his cock. Stupid to have acted rashly. It was not only futile but had made things infinitely worse. As she worked her hands down the length of his right arm, and massaged each of his magnificently sensitive fingers in turn, he knew there was no fighting it. He was harder than he'd been since he was a teenager. If she noticed, she was ignoring it as she gave his left hand the same treatment. She ran her fingers across the callouses made by his violin strings and he came undone. He leaned his head back again, this time with a soft moan.

"That's it, Sherlock. Just let go," she said as she squeezed water from the flannel over his shoulders to rinse them. She performed the same deliberate motions to lather up again before she gave her attention to his chest. "I was surprised your body hair is so light. You don't dye your hair, do you? Did you know that Elvis Presley was a natural blonde? He dyed his hair to give himself that bad boy look like Tony Curtis. You don't dye your hair to make yourself more mysterious, do you?"

"Molly," he said, roughly. His voice was much hoarser than he expected, though he shouldn't have been surprised since his heart rate and respiration rate were increased. "I admit that I do affect a certain look in order to project a desired image, but I do not dye my hair."

"Well, we'll know in a few days if your roots start to grow in, won't we?" she said. Her hands had moved under the water now, to his abdomen. She had to lean over slightly which made her breasts hang in a way, with her nipples barely grazing the water's surface, that triggered something absolutely primal in him. And then she wrapped one of those pretty little hands around his cock and the other around his bollocks and he reared his head back so hard that he feared a concussion. To his relief, she didn't tighten her hold or begin to stroke him; she continued to wash his genitals as she had the rest of him before moving to his legs. When she had finished, she told him to sit up and scoot forward. She slipped behind him in a glorious press of slick skin. Thankfully she didn't press against him or wrap her legs around him. He'd come forward enough for her to have plenty of room to kneel, and she gave his back the same attention she had the rest of him. When she had rinsed his back she placed the tiniest of kisses on the top of his spine, just below his hairline, and climbed out of the tub. She wrapped herself in a fluffy towel and without a word left the room.


	6. Chapter 6

He stayed in the bath until the water was cold and his hands were pruny. It took that long to get himself under control. When she first left the room, he had taken himself in hand immediately, but had stopped after only a few strokes, determined to not let her have control. He leaned his head back again and stared at the ceiling, concentrating on slowing his breathing. This would require the file listing all of the legislation introduced in the House of Commons in 1845. He was ten bills into the list when an image invaded his mind. Molly, lying by the fire, hair fanned out around her, with her hands roaming all over her body before resting between her legs.

"No," he said. "Christ. Concentrate."

Once the idea that she might be pleasuring herself entered his mind, it kept trying to creep back in, but eventually he was able to focus on the obscure minutiae in his mind and regained control of his body.

He was just getting out of the tub when Molly came back in. Her hair was dry and in its usual ponytail, and she was fully dressed, in jeans and a black polo neck. Both hugged her body in ways that none of her London clothes did. Except for one particular dress, but he didn't want to think about that. Why hadn't he deleted that?

She carried a stack of towels and fresh clothing for him. She gave him the clothes and one towel and laid the rest out on the floor to soak up the excess water. She left the room momentarily and returned with a laundry basket containing their wet clothes and her bathrobe. She dropped the basket on the floor and left again.

Sherlock dried himself, cursing the chill in the air and the fact that he'd needed so long to get himself together. He looked at the clothes. Dark jeans and a pale peach Henley shirt. Boxer briefs. Socks but no shoes. No more field trips today, then. He waited to put the socks on until he had mopped up the water from the floor and thrown the sopping towels into the laundry basket.

He found her in the sitting room, kneeling by the fire and feeding it small sticks and rolled up newspaper. He cleared his throat but she didn't look at him. She put the screen back in front of the fire but remained kneeling, staring into it.

"Molly, I—"

"You wanted to kill me. Break my neck maybe? It's harder than they make it look in the movies. Or were you going to hold me under the water until I stopped moving? Or maybe just strangle me. They both take around the same amount of time but it's easier to make drowning look like an accident. Not that the police would ever see. My body or yours."

"Molly I didn't want to kill you. I wouldn't have."

"Just knocked me out then, to try to get away? Or maybe just use me as a human shield? Even if you could get back to your life, it's gone, don't you understand? You'd be arrested the second you set foot on English soil. Add kidnapping me to the other charges and even your brother wouldn't be able to contain it."

"I know all of this!"

"Don't you dare raise your voice at me! Sit in that chair and don't move."

"Going to tie me up again?" he asked as he sat.

"No. I just need you to shut up. I know what you're doing, asking me questions, trying to get me to talk about my Dad and how he was before he died. Trying to make me vulnerable and weepy. What next, are you going to compliment my hair?"

"Didn't you say that your dad actually died suddenly?" Was she getting her lie confused with the truth?

"Shut up!" she said and slapped him. "Can't you ever for once just shut up?" Tears stood in her eyes but she wiped them away before they could fall. He'd made her angry again but this was different from the first day. She was confused, sad and—afraid.

"Molly—"

"NO!" She leaned in and grabbed his shirt with both hands, pulling him forward. "Just shut up you arrogant bastard!"

He prepared himself for another slap, but she froze as the front door opened.

"Oh my. Barely three days and already a lovers' quarrel."

Jim Moriarty stood in the doorway, shaking his head sadly as he shook out his umbrella. He shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it on a hook by the door, revealing, as usual, a beautifully tailored suit.

"Jim!" Molly said. "I didn't know you'd be here—"

"Maggie, please go to your room and don't come back until you can control yourself. This behavior is unbecoming in a lady."

"But Jim—"

"Go!"

She looked at Sherlock and back at her brother before running up the stairs, sobbing. Moriarty looked after her and sighed.

"Always so moody, that one. Well, she never did like to share her toys. She seems to have forgotten that I had you first." He took a seat in Molly's chair and smiled at Sherlock. "Well, don't you look nice in that color. She was always going on about how she wished you'd wear something besides suits. She went on quite the shopping spree. Funny thing about that, too, is that it will all show up on your bank statement. The fake genius preparing for life on the run."

"How long are you going to let this go on? Surely you don't like sharing your toys either."

"Sherlock, it's quite good fun to watch her play with you. At least for now. But if you try anything else like you pulled today I will end it early. No matter what she says about it. You. Martha Hudson, Greg Lestrade, John Watson, all on slabs."

"How—"

"Oh you were right, Sherlock. There are no cameras in that room. But she wasn't bluffing about the microphones. Luckily I was already on my way when I was alerted or I'd have been quite a bit more irritated. As it is I arrived in the nick of time. She can be a bit unpredictable."

Sherlock was silent.

"Well," Moriarty continued. "It's been so nice catching up with you, but I was really only popping in to say hello. You must excuse me while I go have a word with my sister." When no reply came from Sherlock he laughed.

"Oh, giving me the silent treatment, I see. Isn't that precious?" He got up and went toward the stairs. "You just sit here by the fire and enjoy your little strop. I'd rather you not move around too much while neither of us is in the room." He took the stairs two at a time, calling for his sister as he went.

Waves of hot rage washed over Sherlock as he sat. It was the same impotent rage he had felt in Kitty Riley's apartment when the last piece of the puzzle fell into place, and he was absolutely powerless to stop it. However, rage was as useless and distracting to him as desire so he used the same method to calm himself as he had in the bath.

Once the sound of blood rushing in his ears s subsided, he focused on the voices coming from Molly's bedroom. He couldn't make out the words, but the inflection and tones were quite clear. It wasn't exactly an argument. The conversation consisted of a steady blast of commands from Moriarty punctuated by sobbing protests from Molly. This went on for several minutes, followed by a protracted silence (Molly was openly weeping) before Moriarty's voice took on an almost soothing quality. This went on for several more minutes before the door to Molly's room opened and closed and he heard Moriarty's footsteps on the stairs. He breezed past Sherlock, cheerfully whistling the Beatles' "Maggie Mae" as he put on his overcoat and retrieved his umbrella.

"I know you're woefully inexperienced with this sort of thing," he said as he opened the door. "But I would suggest you go check on her if you want to get back in her good graces. And I think you understand how important it is to remain in her good graces. She may want to shag you until your dick falls off, but I will pull the trigger myself if she remains unhappy. Cheers!" And with a tip of an imaginary hat, he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock sprang from his chair and watched from the window as Moriarty strolled casually to a dove grey Range Rover parked in the lane. He got in the passenger side and the vehicle performed a deft three point turn before heading in the direction of the barn turned barracks.

The house was relatively silent now. The rain had slowed and the fire had died down to embers. Molly had gone very quiet as well. He was torn. He needed to be away from her, to decompress from the intensity of the morning, to possibly explore the rest of the house or to just sit and think without any distractions. Moriarty was right, however. He really did need to keep her happy. He had been operating under the idea that her regard for him would keep him safe from real physical harm, but it was becoming evident that she was capable of becoming unhinged enough to do something drastic.

"Right," he said to himself. "I'll just go up there, ask if she's okay, apologize, engage in some form of physical contact of her choosing, then ask if I can stay in my room for a few hours. Nothing to it."

He remained in front of the window for ten more minutes before squaring his shoulders and going up the stairs. He lingered outside her shut door for another minute before knocking.

"Come in." Her voice sounded tight but not teary. He eased open the door. This was his first time seeing her room, and unlike his, it wasn't a blank canvas. The walls were pale lavender and still carried faded posters of late nineties boy bands as well as school certificates. There were still some toys and dolls on top of a bookshelf that was overflowing with paperbacks, as well as a box containing a starter chemistry set. Molly lay on the bed, a white four poster with a pink duvet and pillows. She was on her side, back to him, still in her clothes, but without her boots. She had taken her hair down. He stood in the doorway, unsure of his next step.

"Molly."

"What do you want?"

Here it was. He gritted his teeth and spoke.

"I want to apologize."

"For what?"

He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. "For earlier, in the bath. And for antagonizing you, before your brother showed up. I'm sorry. I will try to be more cooperative."

She was silent for a long while.

"Okay," she said, finally. "Right now I need you to hold me."

He stopped himself before the word "what" escaped. "How would you prefer I hold you?" he asked instead.

"Just lie down with me. Behind me," she answered, still not looking at him.

This is something entirely new to him, and as he went to her bed, it struck him as even more intimate than what had occurred between them in the bathtub. She was in the center of the bed, so he had plenty of room next to her, but once he was lying down, he couldn't quite figure out what to do with all of his limbs.

"What do I do with my right arm?" he asked her.

"Under the pillow."

Oh. Once his right arm was positioned, he wrapped his left arm around her and pulled her against his body, curling himself around her. With a sigh, she relaxed into him. It wasn't too terrible, but he had to force himself to think about anything other than where her bum was in proximity to his groin. Why was it suddenly so hard to disconnect from these thoughts? Would it be easier now if he'd given in and masturbated earlier?

"We fit together nicely," she said, interrupting his thoughts. Did she want him to agree? On a purely objective level, he supposed that their body sizes and proportions were quite compatible, despite her being so much shorter than he was.

"Yes," he said, finally, smoothing her hair down to prevent the flyaways from tickling his nose.

"Mmm, that's nice," she said, and his hand froze. Shit.

"Don't stop."

He silently cursed himself for not thinking before he had touched her hair. This was decidedly not good. What nobody knew, what he would barely admit to himself, was that the reason he always noticed her hair, the reason he sometimes complimented it when she needed a little extra push to do what he wanted (he could have chosen anything else about her or just smiled at her in a certain way) was that he really liked her hair. The color, the length, the slight wave. Everything. Not in a casual way, either. The thoughts he had to lock down regarding her hair ranged from innocently tucking an escaped tendril behind her ear to seeing it wrapped around his hand and wrist as he fucked her from behind. In his most unguarded moments (always between cases, always in the dead of night, waking up sweating and hard) he had used the latter image to guide him to release.

His fingers shook slightly as they grazed her cheek, then softly pulled her hair over her shoulder. He closed his eyes. It was softer—and thicker—than he'd imagined. As he combed his fingers through it, roots to ends, he willed himself to remember who she was and why he was here. He fought the urge to bury his face in the auburn waves and inhale and pretend she was still the Molly he knew. Instead, as her breathing became slower and steadier and she drifted off to sleep, he pulled out every memory he had of her. He was surprised at their number. So much minutiae that he hadn't deleted, and a lot of it wasn't stored behind the pale pink door labeled Molly Hooper in his mind palace, but tucked away in different areas, cross referenced so he wouldn't alarm himself with how much space she was taking up.

The subconscious was a sneaky bastard, wasn't it? Well, he supposed it was a good thing after all, to have so much data. He started at the beginning, from the first day he'd come into the morgue with Lestrade. He was not only searching for clues on how to proceed, but for signs he had missed that all was not as it seemed with the pretty pathologist.

Even after she was sound asleep, his hand remained in her hair, fingers raking through it, wrapping locks of it around his index finger. He found that it helped him to think, and only after his right arm started tingling did he turn over on his back, fingers steepled under his chin, sorting through five years of memory as she breathed softly beside him.


	8. Chapter 8

The sun had come out again by the time Molly's stirring pulled Sherlock from his reverie. He looked down and realized that at some point, she had rolled over and snuggled against him, one arm thrown over his waist and her head resting on his chest. Apparently he had also resumed playing with her hair, as there was definitely still a lock of it between his fingers as she raised her head.

She looked at him steadily, her eyes guarded and wary as she assessed the current situation.

"What time is it?"

"I'd judge about half past four."

She sat up and began combing through her hair with her fingers, attempting to get it in a ponytail again.

"We missed lunch."

"I'm not hungry."

Molly looked at him again with those wary eyes. "I'm not either, to be honest." She gave up on the finger combing and reached over Sherlock to grab her brush from the nightstand.

Sherlock noted with some satisfaction that, while her full weight was on him for a moment as she reached over him, and her breasts pressed into his chest, he did not respond to the stimulus in the same way he had previously. It led him to wonder if the effects of the drug she had given him lingered far longer than she thought. Or did it have hormonal side effects? He wasn't particularly keen on finding out more firsthand.

He had sifted through every memory he could find of her and had come up with nothing. Other than her insistence three days prior that he was trying to hide his sadness from John, she had been consistent in her behavior. The incident was only remarkable because she had been so assertive and he had been unable to belittle her into dropping it, though now he saw that she was laying the groundwork for him to come to her for help. There was one thing that he wondered about now. It was risky to begin asking her questions again, even if she was outwardly calm, but he decided to press forward.

"Molly," he said as she started brushing out her hair. (The sight was aesthetically pleasing to him but he easily suppressed a more lascivious response.)

"Yes?"

"Why don't you have an accent? Obviously Jim's Dublin accent comes from his time spent at school, but you sound just as much like a Londoner as I do, though you've no need for disguise anymore."

She didn't hesitate before answering. "Well I got rid of it, didn't I?" she said in an unmistakable Kildare accent.

"Got rid of it, completely? I've been around you when you were so tired that you were falling asleep standing up, and so drunk that you were telling everyone you met that you loved them, and you've always sounded absolutely English."

"Hmm. That may be true, or you may not have been looking for anything so you didn't notice. I was never on your radar as anything other than how I presented myself, was I? But no, it doesn't slip. One of my good friends at uni was studying drama and she helped me. No matter what people try to say these days, an Irish accent, especially a rural one, is still a hindrance in some circles. "

"But you can still use it when you want, like just now?"

"It's awfully rusty but yes, I use it in the village for sure."

"The world might be such a nicer place if your brother and you had gone into acting instead of crime."

"The same might be said of you, Sherlock."

This elicited the smallest of smiles from Sherlock. "Well, if there are no more adventures planned for the day, I think I will have a look at those newspapers, unless you used them all for kindling already."

"No, they're all down there. I can trust you to sit and read them while I take Lucy out." It was not a question.

"Lucy is that enormous animal downstairs I presume? With the puppies?"

"Yes, short for Lucifer."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dull."

"I'm kidding, silly. She's just plain Lucy, though she's all looks when it comes to menace. You saw how she just sat and watched us yelling at each other. The dog I had when I was a little girl would go mad if anyone even pretended to raise a hand to me. She was a Corgi."

"What is her purpose, then? It must cost a fortune to feed her, especially if she's nursing."

"Oh, just to wander around the property every once in a while. It's like those people who have signs for security companies in their windows but don't actually have a security system. It's all for show."

"But I'd say you have a quite elaborate security system in place."

"Yes, but the neighbors don't know that, do they? Better to just frighten people away than deal with corpses. As much fun as we would have with them, dealing with the police isn't so much fun, especially for a fugitive and his hostage. So, shall we?" She hopped off the bed and opened the door, allowing him to go first.

Downstairs, she pointed him to stack of papers next to her chair. She opened the front door and gave a sharp whistle. The dog, who had been peacefully nursing her litter, bounded up and ran outside, leaving a trail of slobber and confused puppies in her wake. Molly followed the animal outside and Sherlock watched out the window briefly. Lucy ran back and forth up the lane a few times before taking off across the fields. Molly didn't try to keep up; she stood in the lane and watched the dog patrol the perimeter.

He turned his attention to the newspapers and sat down in Molly's chair. It was as he suspected. Kitty Riley's story plus his subsequent disappearance (coinciding with Molly's) had wreaked havoc on his reputation and that of everyone he worked with. He also learned the whereabouts of his coat. It was found at Molly's flat. Signs of a struggle. Molly's blood on the sleeve. So it was likely shoved in an evidence bag at the Yard, unless Mycroft had managed to gain possession of it.

Mycroft and his mother were completely silent on the matter, of course. It was to be expected, a wall of silence and money and influence. Mycroft would have seen through the kidnapping ruse immediately, of course, for many reasons, not the least of which being that he and Sherlock had been one step ahead of Moriarty (or so they thought) since the bombings. Now the situation was delicate, but nothing that Mycroft wasn't used to. He imagined that Mycroft was simultaneously utilizing whatever leads Scotland Yard came up with independently, while at the same time discretely sabotaging any chance the police had of finding him. If he was to be found, it would be through Mycroft's channels. Though he really hoped that his brother was focusing most of his efforts on Moriarty, trusting that Sherlock could take care of himself.

Reading about what was happening within Scotland Yard was more difficult. Lestrade's entire unit suspended without pay indefinitely, facing possible criminal charges for using an unauthorized consultant. John held for questioning related to his involvement in Sherlock's "fake" crimes. All of 221B searched thoroughly, including Mrs. Hudson's flat. One photo showed a team of officers taking a slew of evidence boxes from the building while Mrs. Hudson looked on, crying into a neighbor's shoulder.

Three murderers he helped put away had already filed appeals.

There was talk of civil action against him from some of his "victims." Good thing his trust was far smaller than most people assumed.

He threw down the papers and leaned back in the chair, sorting and filing the pertinent information. He was thus occupied when Molly came back in, sans Lucy.

"She'll run around for a bit longer then come sniffing at the door for her dinner," she said as she removed her rain boots. "It's going to storm again." She went to the fire and started building it up.

"I see that Kitty Riley's career's been made. Her byline is on several of the follow up stories in her paper."

"Oh god, Kitty Riley. You should hear Jim's impersonation of her. He thought about killing her and pinning that on you, too, but he decided she might be useful for a little while longer. He may also decide to kill her and frame John Watson for it." She cocked her head to the side and smiled. "Don't look at me like that. You know, I always knew that what people implied about you two wasn't true, but I also totally understand why they think it."

"Let's leave him completely out of this, shall we?" he said, locking eyes with her.

"My,my, Sherlock," she said, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. "You look angry. Are you going to be naughty again?"

Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And what if I am. Being naughty? It doesn't seem to matter if I behave myself if you're going to threaten my friends even when I'm being completely cooperative."

She shrugged. "You're right. It's not really fair, is it? Just an idle fancy, anyway."

"But Molly, if I were to misbehave, what would you do about it? I doubt you'd call out the big guns, as it were, for a minor indiscretion. I assume it involves the riding crop."

"That was more about making a solid first impression, though it may well make another appearance. So, what is this? Are we bargaining?"

"That would require me to have something to bargain with that you won't just take."

"Sherlock, I really would rather you be a willing participant in what I have planned."

"And that's just it. I'd like to know what you have planned. Beyond taking my much vaunted virginity. When were you planning on getting on with it, and what happens after that?"

"Oh well if you're impatient we can just go do it now. Forgive me for trying to make it easier on you."

"It's still rape no matter how protracted your warped idea of foreplay."

He expected an outburst at this, and cursed himself for letting it slip out, no matter how truthful. However, she merely smiled sadly and shook her head, before standing up and coming to him. She looked down at him challengingly before, with more grace than he'd ever expected Molly Hooper to possess, she climbed into to chair on top of him, straddling his legs. She was silent as she looked him over. She reached out, and with the most feather light of touches ran her finger tips along the outer edge of his ear, down his neck, and to the buttons of his shirt. She unbuttoned the top two and swept her fingers along his collar bone. She leaned in to kiss his neck, her other hand now toying with the hair at his nape. She kissed the spot behind his ear where his jaw met his neck, at the same time gently rolling her hips against his groin. Up until that moment he had been able to remain impassive, but the combination of sensations proved to be too much and he felt himself starting to respond. She smiled and whispered in his ear.

"By the time I'm finished, you're going to be begging for it."

With a quick peck on the nose, she got up and went toward the kitchen. "I'm gasping for a cuppa. Fancy one?"


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as she was out of earshot he let out a frustrated string of expletives. He stood up and began pacing in front of the fire. She had to have a mobile phone, somewhere. She couldn't be relaying all of her needs to the goons in the barracks to pass along to Moriarty. Could she? No. She would have a phone somewhere. He just needed to discover its location, get it from her without her knowledge and out of sight of the cameras (thankfully his pick-pocketing skills were still sharp), get it into the lavatory (so far the only place he was certain had no cameras) and send a text to Mycroft.

Telling him what? That he was on a farm somewhere possibly in County Kildare in Ireland but he had no real evidence to back that up other than that the countryside looked passably Irish and that his captor had spoken one sentence to him using the dialect? You couldn't triangulate a text, and a call was too risky with people listening. He could text Mycroft to get John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson into protective custody so that he could focus on escaping, but what if Molly's texts were being monitored? Would Moriarty be able to act faster than Mycroft? There were too many variables.

Another thought occurred to him as he scanned through the mental map he'd made of the terrain when he and Molly had been out. There had been no cell masts visible as far as he could tell. In rural areas, the masts could sometimes be up to forty miles apart, meaning there was no guarantee that there was any service here.

However, just because he didn't see a mast didn't mean there wasn't one within range. He wouldn't dismiss the possibility entirely. So he still needed to determine if she had a mobile, which wouldn't be easy, since it was definitely information he would only want for nefarious purposes.

Well, since she would likely only ever have it out when she was alone (or thought she was) he supposed he should stay by her side as often as possible. This plan had the added bonus of keeping her happy, he hoped. It would also help prevent any further drugging of his food, unless she was incredibly sly about it.

The kitchen was past the dining room, through a corridor with a pantry on one side and a laundry room on the other. The water had just started to boil (no electric kettle here) and she took it off the range just as it started to whistle. The range was a fairly modern gas affair, though the refrigerator seemed to date from the 1960s.

"I think I would like that cuppa, if you've boiled enough water." Molly looked at him over her shoulder and didn't reply. She did take down another mug.

He leaned against the doorway and watched her carefully as she brewed the tea. He declined milk even though he usually took it. She never took milk and he wanted their cups to be the same.

"For god's sake, Sherlock, I'm not going to drug your tea. That's more your area, isn't it?"

"That was coffee, and it was one time, and the drug wasn't even in the sugar so it's not the same at all."

"If you want milk, have it. There's an unopened bottle in there if you insist on being paranoid."

"Wonder why I should be paranoid about being drugged?"

"Beats me," she said. She took her tea, along with a plate of biscuits, back to the sitting room. He lingered for a bit, stirring his tea longer than necessary so he could have a look around the kitchen. Two cameras. They don't even bother to hide them here, opting for precision over discretion. They were the types used in retail stores, able to zoom in on and follow shoppers around the store. These would likely be equipped with microphones as well. A skilled operator could jump from feed to feed and never lose sight of him as he walked around the house.

He gave the camera closest to him a two finger salute and joined Molly in the sitting room. She was in her chair, legs curled to the side, using her mug as a hand warmer rather than drinking her tea. She smiled when he came in.

"Sherlock, would you like to play a game?"

Molly's dark eyes followed him as he sat his mug down on the table next to her and went to the window. It was only very early evening, with sunset hours away, but it was as dim as twilight.

"If it's Cluedo, I'm warning you now, you won't have any fun."

"No, it's Truth or Dare."

"Isn't that a kid's game?"

"Sort of, did you ever play it at school?"

"If I recall, it's a game whose main purpose, despite the pretense, is to allow for socially acceptable sexual experimentation. As you know, I went to an all boys' school."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"No, I never played. I wasn't interested in social gatherings."

"Well, as you said, it's a platform to allow young people to experiment with each other under the guise of its being 'just a game.' Since your experience level is probably on par with that of a young teenager, I thought it would be an appropriate start. Or, if you'd like, we could discover each other's darkest secrets. I'm not sure which would be more uncomfortable for you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by an enormous gust of wind and a clap of thunder that sounded like it was directly overhead. The lights flickered for a moment and went out. Sherlock assessed the situation in the dim light, but before he could make a move for the fireplace poker, Molly spoke in a deadly calm voice.

"Don't you fucking move. The cameras have an independent backup power source and there's plenty of light in here even without the lamps." She stood up and closed in on him, invading his personal space and becoming far more intimidating than her height and size should allow.

"Truth, Sherlock. Were you going to seize that moment to try to make your escape?"

"Molly-"

"I fucking dare you to lie to me."

"What do you expect me to do? What would you have done?"

"Truth, Sherlock. Do you really care so little for all of the people who so blindly care about you? Admit it. When the lights went out all your precious regard for them flew out the window and you only cared about getting yourself out."

"It was a momentary—"

"No, it was not momentary! It's your nature, Sherlock. You have the gall to act as though you have some sort of moral high ground in this situation but when it comes down to it you're just as self-serving as Jim or me."

"I don't play games with people's lives."

"It's all you ever do! Not long ago you intentionally drugged your best friend without his consent for the sake of an experiment."

"That again? I only thought the drug was in the sugar—"

"And you think that excuses it? Right there, that proves it. You've convinced yourself that you're changing, that Dear John Watson has been a good influence on you and that maybe you're not such a loathsome piece of pedantic shit, but you're exactly the same. Your games hurt and kill people just as surely as Jim's do. You're never going to be a good man, no matter how many good people you surround yourself with."

"Shut up!" He grabbed her by the upper arms and shook her, once, hard. At first she looked surprised, mouth open and eyes wide. Soon, though, the look transformed into one of wonder and triumph, and she started to laugh. Ashamed, he dropped his hands. She was absolutely reprehensible, but she was also tiny. His hands had reached almost entirely around her arms.

"Well I never took you for that type," she said. She stepped closer to him, so close that her breasts were pressed against his chest. "Were you going to knock me around a bit, get rid of some of that sexual frustration?"

"I can assure you that any frustration I'm feeling is not of a sexual nature," he said. "But, I am sorry. Truly. No matter what type of man I may be I am not that type."

He sat down in his chair. She sat in hers, curled up with her arms wrapped around her knees. They looked at each other through several rounds of thunder and lightning, and for the first time he let himself really grieve the loss of his friend, without anger sullying his sadness. It was a dull ache, made worse by the loss of potential.

"Truth or dare," he said.

"Truth."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I love you. Truth or dare."

"Dare."

She smiled. "Of course. I dare you to kiss me," she whispered.

The sky lit up and he counted the seconds before the thunder. Three. The storm was moving away. He got up and went to her, kneeling in front of her chair. She leaned forward and he reached out, threading his fingers through the hair at her nape. He leaned his forehead against hers and inhaled. He could do this. He would just pretend she was the Molly he knew. If he were a kissing person, she had been one of the few he would deign to kiss.

"It's okay," she said.

"I know," he said, and closed the distance between them.

Her mouth was soft and pliant, and he felt as if every nerve in his body ended at the point where his lips met hers. He took the lead, because she had specifically asked him to kiss her. When he opened his mouth slightly, she followed suit immediately. There was a part of his mind that he kept separate, something he was usually able to do with anything involving his body, but that analytical voice became fainter as she sighed and took his bottom lip into her mouth, biting it gently. Before it could be silenced altogether, though, he pulled back, eyes scanning her face. She looked happy and—familiar.

"Truth or dare," she said.

"Isn't it my turn to ask?"

"I think I'll have another go."

"Dare."

"You can't choose the same thing twice in a row."

"Then why did you bother to ask?"

"It's part of the game."

"Okay then, truth."

"Did you enjoy that?"

"On a very basic, reptilian level, yes, somewhat. Truth or dare."

"Dare."

"Let me sleep untied tonight."

It was Molly's turn to look him over. "Only if I join you."

"I don't think you get to dictate the terms of the dare."

"I do when I'm the one making the rules. And I think the game is over."

"Fair enough. We shared a bed amicably enough this afternoon so it shouldn't be an issue." He went back to his chair. Before long, Lucy came back, whining and snuffling at the door. Molly let her in and the dog flopped down with her puppies, licking them and checking them over.

Molly and Sherlock remained in silence as the rain fell and the false night melted into real darkness, illuminated only by the dying fire.


	10. Chapter 10

Another morning. His fourth time waking up there. His first time waking up in her bed. She had insisted on her bed, because it had a better mattress. He was inclined to agree, and it really didn't matter to him as long as he could sleep on his side or stomach if he desired.

Not that he'd slept much. Molly hadn't made any advances on him. In fact, she had fallen asleep quite quickly, once she had wrapped her body around his and settled her head on his chest. As soon as he felt her fully relax into deep sleep, he gently extricated himself and lay on his side, facing her. The electricity had come on soon after they came upstairs, and he watched her in the soft glow of her pink shaded bedside lamp. In sleep she was completely blank. He'd seen her sleeping before, a few times catching a nap at her desk in the lab. Another time at his flat when she'd come over to help him with some indexing. He'd kept her later than he originally said, and she had fallen asleep on his sofa in the middle of a conversation. She had always looked the same. Blank and sweet and young.

His mind raced for most of the night, but it wasn't turning over facts and memories and possible escape scenarios. He thought about what she had said earlier, about his character and the type of man he was. It wasn't something he'd given much thought to in the past because he didn't think it mattered as long as he got results. In the past year or so, his attitude had shifted some, and she was right that John had a lot to do with that shift. But maybe he was fooling himself. Maybe being a good person wasn't compatible with being what he was. He used to be fine with that.

Finally, forcefully, he shut down his mind and slept. He woke up to full sunlight. The rain was gone and the room was bordering on uncomfortably warm. It didn't help that Molly was snuggled into him tightly, face in his chest, and his arms around her. He tried to move away without waking her, but was unsuccessful. She stirred as soon as he did.

She roused and propped herself up on one elbow, looking into his eyes. She was wearing a camisole, and when the blanket slid off her shoulders, he saw the bruises on her arms, long purple marks from his fingers, the darkest from his thumbs. He reached out and touched them, as if to verify their realness. She grabbed his hand and kissed his fingertips.

"I bruise easily. It didn't hurt, it just surprised me."

"That doesn't excuse it."

"My brother is smaller than you. Would you feel bad if you hurt him?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Don't let the fact that I'm a woman trick you into thinking I'm not dangerous."

"That's not it."

"It is, though, and it could get you killed. So stop it."

She pulled herself closer and kissed him. He didn't resist it, nor did he return it. He merely accepted it, as one does a handshake from a not so close acquaintance. She pulled back and searched his face for a moment, then ran her hand along his cheek.

"I bet you'd like a shave today, wouldn't you?"

"That would be nice, however I'd really like to do it myself. In private."

"You can do it yourself, but if you don't want me in the room, you'll have to do it in the kitchen."

He knew this was what she would say, but he wanted her to feel as though she'd exerted her authority. He still planned on sticking close to her as much as he could.

"Fine, you can watch me but I will do it myself."

Molly shrugged and sat up. She opened the draw in her night stand and pulled out a package of birth control pills. Sherlock's relief was infinite. Whatever she had planned, it didn't seem to involve creating an heir to the Moriarty empire.

"You take the inactive pills?" he said, after noticing her popping out the second pill from the last row.

"My schedule is so erratic that if I go a week without taking them I can forget to start a new pack." She dry swallowed the little orange colored pill and got up to leave. "I'll turn the boiler up. I assume you want hot water for your shave."

Sherlock followed closely behind her. As she went into a room off the kitchen to deal with the boiler, he started making tea, listening for any signs that the small closet might be where she kept her mobile. There was definitely no chance that she was concealing it on her person, considering that all she wore was the camisole and a miniscule pair of shorts. Even if he wouldn't know what to do with her mobile once he determined she had one, it was a task to focus on. A goal.

When she entered the kitchen, she beamed when she saw that he was making the tea. She started gathering things from around the kitchen.

"Baking?"

"Scones," she said, as she nudged past him to get milk and eggs from the refrigerator. "Will you set the oven to six please?"

He watched her as she gathered her supplies. She didn't seem entirely familiar with the kitchen's contents, but she had said that she didn't get to come as often as she liked, and the kitchen was set up much differently from the one in her flat in London. She was also still quite drowsy. She yawned as she piled all her hair on top of her head and secured it with a hair elastic from around her wrist. Then she leaned on the work top and stared at the ingredients and utensils she had amassed. He handed over her mug of tea and she took it gratefully.

"Your water should be hot by the time I get these in the cooker," she said, and set to work. She didn't use a recipe, and was a bit slap dash with her measurements. This would have made his chemist's heart a bit nervous if it weren't for the fact that he'd partaken of Molly's baking many times in the past. He had just never had the opportunity to watch her do it. She didn't wear an apron, so the front of her shirt and shorts were soon covered in streaks of flour where she wiped her hands. There were also distinct handprints on her backside. Once she had the dough kneaded, she handed Sherlock a juice glass.

"Make yourself useful," she said. He took the glass from her and started cutting circles in the dough. She took them almost as soon as he cut them out, placing them on a baking sheet and brushing them with an egg wash.

"Push all the scraps together and knead it, but just a couple of times. "

"Yes, too much handling causes the bubbles created by the leavening to break, making the pastries tough."

"And you don't want the gluten strands to be too long."

"Right," he said, and cut out the remaining scones. There were only a few scraps left. Molly whistled for the dog, who came skidding down the hallway. Molly tossed the scraps in the air and Lucy caught most of them before they hit the ground. She then scampered back to the sitting room.

Molly put the baking sheet in and set the timer. "You've got fifteen minutes," she said.

In the lavatory, he was momentarily shocked when he saw himself in the mirror. He hadn't looked at himself in days. The stubble (his beard grew at a glacial pace) combined with his out of control hair and a frankly haunted look in his eyes he looked mildly deranged. Shaving would help some, as would giving his hair a good seeing to, but he didn't know what to do about the fear.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub while he shaved, watching him silently. He watched her in the mirror, noticing when she examined the bruises on her arms, poking at them lightly. He noticed when she stretched out one leg and ran her hand up her calf, determining when she would need to shave. When he finished (not a close enough shave but it would do) she came up to him and ran her hand over his cheek and jaw.

"Not bad," she said. She drew even closer to him and stood on her toes to place a tiny kiss on the mole on his neck. "There's something I want to do for you after breakfast."

The oven timer went off and she pulled him by the hand into the kitchen.


	11. Chapter 11

They ate the scones with clotted cream and apricot jam. Sherlock read the paper while Molly made a shopping list. His story was no longer on the front page. Nothing new. Police stumped, though supposedly they had been spotted in Germany. Likely his brother's doing, that lead. German was the best of his languages.

"Molly, when we took the ferry to Dublin, what name did you use for the tickets?"

"Ticket. Just one. You were in the boot and they didn't look. Used a random alias Jim got for me. And before you ask, the car is in another name. Though it's likely been chopped by now since I left it in Dublin with the keys in it and we took a bus to the village where one of Jim's boys picked us up."

"And the cameras will have seen me arriving at your apartment before you and picking the lock. And when we left, I suppose that you were able to make it appear as though you were being taken by force, and that I forced you to drive."

"Yes. And Molly's car was found in a field in Surrey where we were met with another car. Unfortunately by the time Molly's car was found, the field had been mowed, so there was no evidence left of any other cars or people leaving on foot. "

"Unfortunate coincidence."

"Shameful, really."

"So," he said, folding his paper. "What do you have in store for me? This thing you're going to do for me?"

"Later," she said, getting up and fetching a basket from on top of the cupboards. "I peeked outside earlier and there are loads of blackberries on the hedgerow. It'd be a shame if the squirrels and birds were the only ones to enjoy them."

"Berry picking? Is this some sort of pastoral fantasy you want to live out?"

"No. I just want to make a fucking cobbler later and eat it with ice cream since I'm going to start my period in about two seconds. Not everything is about you."

"Oh."

"Let's get to it, then."

They put on their boots and went into the back garden, where the blackberries were running riot over the hedges. It was verging on hot even though it was still early, but he liked the sun on his back, especially after the chill and damp of the day before. True summer days were rare in this part of the world. She told him to eat as many berries as he wanted, since she'd never find a use for them all. They gathered the berries in silence, and after a few minutes he looked down to see that her lips and fingers were stained. He chuckled.

"What?"

"You look cyanotic."

"Well if I do, so do you."

"Fair point."

They continued picking, and Sherlock found himself intensely enjoying the sun warmed berries. His usual relationship with food was that he liked it to taste good when he did eat, but didn't spend much time thinking about it otherwise, and certainly didn't go into a euphoric state about it. But at that moment, even though he wasn't hungry at all, he lost himself to the way the berries burst in his mouth and how they were the exact temperature of the air. How they were at the peak of ripeness, sweet with just the right amount of tartness.

"Sherlock! You're eating more than you're putting in the basket."

He blinked a few times and looked at her. "You said to eat as many as I wanted."

"Well, I amend that. I didn't expect you to want that many, and I'd like to actually have enough ripe ones for the cobbler."

They filled the basket and went back indoors, blinded momentarily by the dim interior after the bright day.

"Come on," she said, pulling him toward the lavatory. "Daily baths are out since it takes so much water and fuel, but I'll help you wash your hair. I saw how dismayed you were when you saw the state of it." She squinted and reached out. She pulled a purple colored catkin from his hair. He took it from her and studied it briefly.

"Black poplar. _Plantae_, _Malphigiales_, _Salicaceae_, _Populus_. _P. Nigra_. Subspecies _betulifolia_ or possibly in the _Plantierensis_ group. Common to France, Great Britain and Ireland. Created by crossing subspecies _betulifolia_ with Lombardy poplars to create a cultivar that looks like a Lombardy but is hardy enough to survive the northwest Europe climate. Cultivated in rows to create borders and windbreaks-"

He rattled the information off deadpan—it was mostly a brain exercise—but he stopped cold when he looked at her. She looked at him as though she wanted to eat him.

"Problem?"

"None whatsoever," she replied. She got three towels from the cupboard. One stayed folded and went on the floor next to the tub. Another she set aside on the sink. She unfolded the third one and told him to kneel and lean over the tub. She wrapped the towel around his shoulders and secured it with a hair clip. She filled a pitcher from the tap and poured it over his head. The temperature was perfect, and she ran her other hand through his hair, making sure that all of it got wet. She wasn't as gentle with the shampoo. Her strong fingers massaged his scalp roughly. He knew he needed it, though. The shampoo was the same one he always used. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, letting the clean, sharp scent take him back to his flat and early mornings spent in companionable silence with John. Or sometimes late nights, dragging himself home after a finished case. Often he was filthy, sometimes slightly injured. He showered before collapsing into bed only to preserve the cleanliness of his bed linens.

Molly rinsed the lather from his hair. Once the fragrance dissipated, he was brought back to the present. She applied the conditioner more gently; she rubbed it on her palms and ran her fingers through his curls. She massaged the back of his neck lightly and worked out a knot in his right trapezius, then filled the pitcher and rinsed his hair again.

She draped the extra towel over his head and told him he could sit up.

"I'll leave you to dry it, and do a sponge bath or whatever. Five minutes. I'll get your clothes."

He wanted to follow her, but five minutes alone with no cameras was too good a prospect to pass up. He got through his ablution quickly and wrapped a towel around himself. He spent the remainder of the time in his mind, filing new information and checking it against old. He didn't delete anything.

When Molly returned, she had another pair of pyjama bottoms and a new t shirt. It was plain white.

"More pyjamas? It's not even ten o'clock."

"Yes, but I have to go to the village. The choices are for me to tie you up, in which case pyjamas will be more comfortable, or I can have one of the barracks boys come babysit. But there's not a single one I trust enough to leave alone with you. You'd be shot in the head before you finished your deductions."

"What if I prefer the babysitter?"

"It's not your choice."

"Nice way of making me remember my place. Do something nice for me then exert your authority again."

Her eyes flashed for a moment, but she tamped down whatever anger she had and smiled.

"I really am sorry. But I'll make it up to you when I get back. I promise."


	12. Chapter 12

"Step six. Succinate is oxidized by a molecule of FAD (Flavin adenine dinucleotide). The FAD removes two hydrogen atoms from the succinate and forces a double bond to form between the two carbon atoms, thus creating _fumarate_. Step 7. An enzyme adds water to the fumarate molecule to form _malate._ The malate is created by adding one hydrogen atom to a carbon atom and then adding a hydroxyl group to a carbon next to a terminal carbonyl group. In the final step, the malate molecule is oxidized by a NAD molecule. The carbon that carried the hydroxyl group is now converted into a carbonyl group. The end product is_oxaloacetate_ which can then combine with acetyl-coenzyme A and begins the Krebs cycle all over again."

Molly was gone for three hours, and had been back for two hours, but Sherlock was still bound to his bed. She sat at the end of the bed, wearing a pretty sundress, hair still up, joyfully eating an enormous bowl of vanilla ice cream and blackberry cobbler while he explained the Krebs cycle. Before the Krebs cycle, it had been a detailed explanation of anaerobic respiration. Before that, acetal hydrolosis, enolate formation and myriad other organic chemical reactions. Of course these were mostly things she knew by heart, but she reacted to him talking about anything to do with science the way other women would respond to dirty talk.

He was bored and incredibly thirsty.

"Calvin cycle," she said as she licked the last remnants of ice cream from her spoon.

"Molly, I'll gladly continue but will you please get me a glass of water and maybe considering untying me? I fail to see how this is making anything up to me."

She responded with as hard smack on his thigh with her spoon. Then she left the room.

"Fuck," he sighed. Who knew how long she would be gone.

He focused on breathing. One hundred and five breaths later, she came back with a glass of water in one hand and a glass of white wine in the other. She set both down on the bedside table and began unlocking his restraints. She rubbed his hands and ankles and helped him sit up. Every muscle in his body protested and he couldn't stop his arms and legs from shaking. She held the glass of water while he drank and took it away before he could drink enough to upset his stomach. She drank deeply from her own glass and reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up.

"What are you doing?"

"Take your shirt off."

"Really? Now? You're doing this now?"

"No, that's on hold for a few days."

She worked his shirt over his head and squeezed in behind him, her back against the headboard and her legs around him.

"Oh shit," she said and stretched over to rummage in her night stand. She found a small tube of lotion and settled in behind him again.

"You'll have to excuse the girly smell," she said, warming a bit of it in her hands. When she began working his muscles, he laughed.

"What's funny?"

"You," he said. "You're like a parent with Munchausen's by proxy, making me hurt and then making it all better."

She stopped and he tensed, but she soon resumed. He had never been touched in this way, so he didn't know if her technique was proper or even any good, but it did feel wonderful.

"People with Munchausen's need an audience, you know. I've uncovered more than one case of it over the years. Suspected it a few times more, but it's hard to prove."

"And you actually care?"

"Children are defenseless."

"Your brother wasn't."

"He wasn't your average child, was he?"

She continued to work the knots out of his shoulders and back, working her way down and up, using her fingers, palms and knuckles. When she leaned in close, he could feel her breath on his skin, which caused the hair on his arms to stand on end. Finally, she slid out from behind him and had him lean back against the headboard, bolstered by several pillows. She handed him the glass of water and finished her wine.

"Bottoms off," she said.

He was glad he'd finished the water, because he might have spit it out in shock.

"Excuse me?"

"Take your bottoms off. Pants, too."

"What are you going to do?"

"I told you I would make it up to you."

He sighed and lifted his hips, pushing his pyjama bottoms and pants down. She helped pull them the rest of the way off, then sat back on her heels, looking at him as though she'd never seen him naked before.

The knot in his stomach was not just a result of nerves.

He was partially erect already (he'd attributed it to the physiological effects of the massage) and she took him in hand. She started moving his foreskin back and forth over the head of his cock, very slowly, just using her thumb and index finger. He closed his eyes and inhaled. This was something he did on those occasions when he had to give into his body's demands, but he'd never had anyone else touch him this way, and it was entirely different. He was completely hard in her hand with just a few strokes. She ran her hand down the entire length a few times, then back up to the tip, which she brushed lightly with her thumb. He raised his hips reflexively and exhaled with a soft moan.

"Don't fight it, Sherlock. It'll be easier if you just let yourself go."

"Just get on with it."

"Darling, this is for your benefit. I mean, I do enjoy it but it's really all about you. I only have one rule. You may feel the need to touch my head, and that's fine. You can even pull my hair if you want. But do not, under any circumstances, exert any pressure on my head. Do you understand?"

He opened his eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were dark and through the haze of hormones rushing through his body she looked maddeningly beautiful. He simultaneously wished that she would stop what she was doing with her hand, and hoped feverishly that she would never stop.

"Understood," he said. "But I need you to do one thing."

"What's that?"

"Take down your hair."

A smug smile played across her lips before she set her face into more stern lines. "You didn't say please."

"I believe you said that this was all about me. Take down your hair."

She took the elastic out and let her hair fall around her shoulders, relinquishing that tiny bit of power to him. He wasn't so naïve about sex that he didn't understand that no matter how submissive this act could be on the surface, she was in complete control.

She leaned forward and placed both of her hands on his abdomen. Fingers splayed, she ran her hands up to his chest. She followed with her mouth, working back down his body. (How had he never thought about how exquisite it would be to feel hair trailing along his skin?)

When she reached his cock again, she gathered her hair so that it hung over her right shoulder. She placed one hand around the base, lowered her head, and after raising her eyes to give him one last scorching look, put her mouth on him.

Of the many things that Sherlock Holmes had denied himself in pursuit of a hyper-focused mind, this was the one he had heard talked about the most, from his school days to the present. He'd always scoffed at the way other men made such a big deal about it, and he wondered why women bothered with it at all.

That was before this woman who wasn't Molly Hooper wrapped her lips around his prick and sent every rational thought from his mind as surely as if she'd dropped a bomb there. She sucked softly on the head at first, and just as he thought he might be able to get ahold on himself, she swirled her tongue around it, between the tip and the part of his foreskin that wasn't completely retracted, and he unraveled. He buried his left hand in her hair while his right held onto the duvet in a death grip.

She took as much of him in as she could a few times, but mostly she concentrated on the first few inches, using her hands on the rest of his shaft and his bollocks. Every once in a while she would look up at him, never missing a beat.

He, on the other hand, thrust his hips erratically at every new sensation. This didn't go on long. Within minutes he felt the tightening in his stomach, his balls, his entire body.

"Molly, I'm almost—I'm going to-"

He expected her to pull away and finish him off by hand, but she squeezed his thigh reassuringly and kept going and then for a blissful few seconds his mind was blank and his body was nothing but bursts of pleasure and he couldn't really see but he could feel her taking it in and swallowing it all. Then one word exploded across his consciousness. _Succubus_. And he started to laugh at the absurdity and when he put his hand to his face it came back wet with tears.

As he lay gasping, she sat up and wiped her mouth. Her lips were swollen and red. He had a mad desire to kiss her so that he could taste himself on her. To gain back some of what she'd taken from him.

She settled in beside him. His skin was so sensitive that light touches were painful, but she seemed to understand this and threw one arm around him, exerting a constant pressure that was almost comforting.

He felt drowsy immediately (release of norepinephrine, serotonin, oxytocin, vasopressin, nitric oxide and prolactin combined with changes in blood pressure due to arousal and release and thank God his brain seemed to be firing on at least half its cylinders again) and as he slipped into sleep he marked this particular side effect as another fantastic reason to avoid sexual encounters.

He woke up with a start, the light in the room suggesting he'd only slept a couple of hours. He was alone, still nude, but covered in light blanket. He pulled his pyjama bottoms back on and went downstairs, his legs shaky from the hours in bed.

Molly wasn't in the sitting room, but the noise and smells coming from the direction of the kitchen indicated her location.

He went to his chair and stopped in surprise. There was a violin case leaning against it, and a folded music stand and a sheaf of staff paper in the seat.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock sat with the violin on his lap for hours but did not play. It was a John Furber, built in the 1820s according to the two appraisal certificates in the case. It was lightweight and golden colored to the point of being almost blonde. Without playing it he knew that she could not have gotten it for less than ten thousand pounds. Five times over what he paid for his violin at home.

She had come in earlier and asked if he wanted to eat. It had taken so much of his will not to flinch when she placed her hand on his bare shoulder. He had told her no. She squeezed his shoulder. He said no again.

She was currently sprawled on the sofa on the wall opposite the window, reading a book and cuddling one of Lucy's puppies. She had come home with two tote bags full of books. One was in his room. He had not looked through it.

He stroked the violin strings with the tips of his fingers, his calluses catching and making them squeak.

He considered smashing it against the wall.

Even when his addiction had been at its worst, he'd never had to resort to selling himself in order to get a fix. He wondered if it would have felt like this.

Finally, out of curiosity and the need to think of something besides the feel of her tongue on his prick, he took out the bow to prepare it.

She glanced at him when he began rubbing the rosin along the bow hair, then went back to her book. She lay on her stomach, her dress hiked carelessly above her knees and the puppy resting on the small of her back. The soles of her little bare feet were dirty.

When he began tuning the instrument, he knew it would be glorious. He should have known immediately. She wouldn't have gotten him anything subpar. He went to the window and played a scale. The instrument was loud, but sweet. Bright and rich at the same time.

He took a breath and played. Tartini's "Sonata in G." The Devil's Trill Sonata. He'd always found most of it to be dreadfully sentimental, even for an Italian piece. But it seemed to fit, and he remembered it well enough that he could let his mind float along with the melody while his hands did the work by rote. He'd been playing this piece for years; it was the one that made his teacher realize that Sherlock was more talented than she. He also used it to annoy Mycroft, who played dreadfully but was forced to keep at it. The first time he played it for his mother, she had smiled and said, "Well done." Two little words that sustained him for ages, so desperate was he for her approval. The melody took him to places other than the farmhouse, and even the darker memories were better than the present.

As he moved from the Allegro to the Andante, however, a certain memory assailed him, sharply focused and effectively pushing away the dimly lit memories of his childhood.

He has played this for her before.

Late. In the lab. Years ago. He had his violin with him because he had just picked it up after a minor repair. She hadn't known he played and he was feeling oddly generous (she had helped him immensely in a complicated case) so he played for her. She had cried. It would have been just after her father had died.

Well, after Molly Hooper's father had died. Maggie Moriarty's father had been in the ground for over a decade at that point.

He stopped abruptly. He lowered the instrument and stared out into the twilight. It was so tranquil, and it epitomized everything he hated about the country. How such beauty and solitude could conceal the kind of horrors that were occurring in this house.

He raised the violin to his shoulder again, determined to not let her ruin for him this thing he could always find solace in. Something light. Bach. "Air On a G String." His physical environment gradually fell away and he wandered through his mind, sorting, cleaning, setting things to rights, examining things he hadn't picked up in ages. When he finished the Bach piece, he moved on to another and another, oblivious to the setting sun or the aching in his limbs. He mentally catalogued every object at Baker Street. Every book and case file and stick of furniture, moving around its rooms like a ghost, unable to touch anything, but seeing all.

It was dark out when he stopped playing. She hadn't turned on any of the lamps, and there had been no need for a fire, so the only light came from a tiny sliver of moon. He looked out at the stars, their abundance one of the things he loved about the country.

He turned, ready to put the violin away. He was alone. He listened as he wiped down the bow, but didn't hear anything from the other end of the house. Upstairs, then? He mounted the stairs, violin case in hand. Her door was closed, but there was light escaping from underneath. His door was open. His room was dark.

He wasn't sure what she expected of him.

Keeping her happy would likely mean sleeping in her bed again. When he tried the doorknob, however, he found it locked. He couldn't fathom what this could mean, but sighed in relief at the prospect of being alone. He thought he might rattle to pieces if she touched him again.

He tucked the violin case under the bed, then spent a few minutes pacing around the room, indulging in a space that was his, if only temporarily. He turned on all the lamps and the overhead light, then sat on the bed with the bag of books she'd brought him. There were titles on everything from apiculture to thermo dynamics. They were from a shop, not a library, so there was no stamp showing exactly what village she had gone to. No receipt in the bag or complimentary book marks tucked into any of them. The carrier bag was plain, the type that small businesses use when they can't afford the luxury of personalization.

Frustrated, he shoved the whole pile onto the floor and flopped back on the bed.

The last thing he wanted to do was sleep. He'd slept more in the past few days than he had in weeks. He didn't feel like reading and his fingers would bleed if he played anymore. And he wanted to scream because no matter what he did he couldn't stop thinking about what had occurred in this bed that afternoon.

He got up and put on his shirt. He went to Molly's door and knocked.

"What?" she said.

"I'm going for a walk. I'm taking the dog with me. Please let your minions know I'm not making a run for it."

There was a long pause before she answered.

"Okay."

Downstairs, he put on his boots and whistled for Lucy. He grabbed a torch that was hanging from one of the coat hooks and went into the night. Lucy followed him outside eagerly and they spent the next few hours roaming the countryside.

He wanted a cigarette desperately and thought about going to the barn to see if any of the goons had one to spare. Considering what Molly had said earlier about how trigger happy they were, he decided against it.

When the horizon began to lighten and Lucy was panting from thirst, he returned to the farmhouse. He filled the dog's water bowl and watched in mingled horror and amusement as she lapped it up, getting more on the floor than in her mouth. He downed two glasses of water himself.

The dog settled back with her puppies and Sherlock went to his room, stripping off all of his clothes, which were covered in burrs and dew and wet grass. He collapsed on the bed and knew oblivion for a few sweet hours.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock awoke to a quiet house and an alarmingly stuffy room. The sun was high and the day seemed hotter than the one before. He wanted to throw himself into the nearest body of water he could find, but a lukewarm bath would do.

His pyjama bottoms and shirt from the day before were hopeless so he put on his boxer briefs and went downstairs. It was marginally cooler in the rest of the house, but still stuffy. Fortunately, he was able to open most of the windows, which created a bit of a cross breeze. Molly was not downstairs.

He started running a bath and went back upstairs to try her room. This time when he knocked she said he could come in.

She was curled on her bed, on top of the duvet, pale and sweating in only her bra and knickers. Despite the heat, she was cradling a heating pad against her abdomen. Her windows were open and she had an oscillating fan on, stirring the stuffy air around.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

She nodded and smiled weakly. "Second day is always the worst. The pills are supposed to help but I'm one of the unlucky few. And this fucking heat isn't helping."

He was completely out of his depth, having never had a sister or a girlfriend. Of course he knew all about what was happening to her physically, he just didn't know what to do or say.

"Do you—need anything?" He hoped it would be as simple as tea. Or chocolate.

"No."

He turned to go but she kept talking. "You know, it's funny, my mum thinks the only reason I take them is for cramps, and they don't even work for that. I swear she thinks I'm still a virgin."

He stops at the door and looks at her. Her face is a mixture of panic and confusion.

"What was that, Molly? Your mum—how can she-"

"Oh shut up," she groaned and rolled onto her back, holding the heating bad tightly against her. "You'd get a little mixed up, too, if you were undercover for half a decade and currently felt like someone was digging your insides out with a spoon. She thought I was on them for cramps, when I went on them when I was sixteen. It was the only way she'd have allowed it. Didn't know I was shagging one of the farmhands in the hayloft every chance I could get." She moaned softly again.

"Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"No, Sherlock. Just go."

"One thing, Molly. I need some clean clothes."

She groaned and pointed to the corner, where several carrier bags sat. Harrods, Harvey Nichols, Marks and Spencer. She had certainly done a lot of damage with his card, which really seemed unfair since it turned out she was the one with more money.

"Mind if I keep these in my room, or do you want to keep playing dress up?"

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock just go or I swear to God-I still have my gun and I will fucking use it."

He retreated, taking the clothes with him.

Downstairs, he got into the tub before it was completely full. He wanted to be clean, as quickly as possible. He scrubbed himself relentlessly with the lavender and citrus soap. After rinsing, he drained the water and let the tub fill again. He checked what he could of his body for ticks. He would have to have Molly cover his back and his scalp, but he felt confident that she would keep it clinical, if she agreed to do it at all. She really did look terrible. He almost felt sorry for her.

The cigarette craving, which he'd managed to bury behind a thousand other thoughts, suddenly demanded his attention. He hopped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist. She must have bought some. She knows him well, and would use them for punishment or reward. Probably both.

He didn't really have to search. There was a full carton, in the freezer, the first place he looked. His hands shook as he tore off the cellophane and took out a pack. Dunhills, full flavor. He tore the cellophane off the pack and sniffed them. They smelled like freedom. He had snuck his last cigarette the day before Moriarty's trial.

He took one out and lit it on the stove. He didn't care if she allowed smoking in the house. It was too bloody hot out and the kitchen was cool, comparatively. He leaned against the work top and savored it, blowing smoke rings at the camera in the corner.

"So, I know you can hear me. But are you lovely lads able to talk back?" Silence. There were no speakers anywhere in the house as far as he could tell, so he doubted communication was two way. But another thought occurred to him.

"I suppose you enjoyed the show yesterday, then? Or does she make you turn the cameras off when she's being naughty?" He sincerely hoped that she had. The idea of anyone else having seen the state she'd reduced him to yesterday made him slightly nauseous. Especially if the person seeing it were Moriarty. The bastard was just sick enough that he would watch his own sister give a blow job just to see Sherlock suffer.

He stubbed his cigarette out in a mug and looked in the fridge. He made himself an enormous plate of the remains he hadn't eaten for dinner last night—cold chicken, cheese, and that lovely cobbler—and put the kettle on. He continued his one sided conversation while he ate, mostly going on about how good a cook Molly was. He honestly didn't know if he was only antagonizing them, or if he was just that desperate to talk to someone other than her. (He had rambled incessantly to the dog last night while they were out.)

When the water was ready, he started to only make one cup, but then he remembered Moriarty's warning. Sherlock really had managed to piss her off before leaving her room. He sighed and got out another mug. His little rebellion was over.

He stopped in his room to put on pants (it was too hot for anything else, which made him question the logic of bringing her tea) and knocked on her door. No answer. It wasn't locked so he went in.

She was asleep, lying on her stomach with the heating pad under her. She had taken her bra off and all that remained were her black cotton knickers. Her hair was in two braids, exposing her bare back and the red indentations where her bra had cut into her sweaty skin. Her face looked less pale and pinched, though she didn't look completely relaxed.

He set her mug of tea on her bedside table and watched her for a bit longer, still trying to reconcile who she was with who he'd thought she was.

He looked at her body. She was so small, yet she was determined to take possession of his body using the threat of violence from a hand other than her own.

Control of his body, using it as just transport for his mind, has always been of paramount importance, and it has _worked_. His virginity had never held any philosophical or emotional weight, but he recoiled at the idea of its being taken by force. He had only felt such loss of control the three times he was in rehab and, if he were completely honest, the days leading up to his being in rehab.

But just like rehab, wouldn't that loss of control ultimately serve a greater good? It should be such a minor thing, really, and she would finally be satisfied and let him go. Maybe. She couldn't hold him here forever (could she?) But what was to stop her from popping up in his life over and over again, with the same threats and demands?

Molly rolled over. Her breasts, as he so cruelly told her once, were indeed small, but they were beautifully shaped. He licked his lips when he saw them. He thought about how they had looked in the bath.

And that's really what it was. It was the fact that once this happened, he would know exactly what he was missing out on, and he might never stop wanting it. Because if she were to wake up right now and offer to suck him off again, he wouldn't be able to overcome what she had awoken in his body in just a few days.

He turned abruptly and left the room before he could dwell on that scenario any longer.

He spent the rest of the afternoon downstairs, alternating smoking cigarettes with playing everything he knew. His arms grew shaky and his lungs tight and sweat dripped into his eyes but on he played and on he smoked, sometimes simultaneously. He didn't care how badly the smoke stung his eyes.

When the pack was gone he put the violin away. He made a stop in Molly's room and picked up a small bottle that was next to her now cold tea. Oxycodone hydrochloride. 15 mg. The reason for her deep sleep. He took three pills from the bottle and held them up to the camera.

"Just three. Not enough to hurt me, just enough to numb me for a few hours. He swallowed them with a swig of cold tea and raised the mug in a silent toast.


	15. Chapter 15

Molly found him in the loo, bent over the toilet. His stomach was empty but he kept heaving.

"Seriously, what the fuck?" she said. "It smells like an ashtray down here, the food's been left out and Lucy got in it, and you've been at my pills? How long have you been sober, Sherlock?"

"Three years," he rasps, and heaves again.

"Did you forget about one of the common side effects of opioids?"

"Thought I'd be fine," he said, and lay down on the cool tile floor. She stepped into the room and wet a clean flannel, then crouched beside him and placed it on the back of his neck.

"Open your eyes," she said. She looked closely at him. "Well, it looks like quite a bit of it made it in your system. Your pupils are pinpricks. How many?"

"Three."

"Oh for fuck's—Sherlock, I have to take those almost every month and half of one knocks me out. I know you're bigger than me but your tolerance has to be shit now."

"How did you know it was the pills?"

"Had a visitor. The boys all thought it was hilarious, you stumbling around and smiling like an idiot, talking to Lucy about organic chemistry, but they thought I might be a bit concerned when you started puking your guts out."

"I didn't hear anyone come in."

"Well, you're not exactly functioning at full capacity, are you?" She helped him to a sitting position and wiped his forehead and mouth with the flannel. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Let me go."

Her big brown eyes were soft and full of sympathy as she put her hand to his cheek. "You know I can't."

"But why me? I'm awful. To everyone. You especially. "

"Sherlock, I think you've seen enough crime scenes to know that love is never rational. And besides, Molly Hooper was a mousy little twit. I'd have been mean to her, too."

"No," he said, "She wasn't. She was—she was kind. And she was strong. And she didn't judge. And the only thing I ever really thought was wrong with her was that she was foolish enough to love me."

"Do you think I'm foolish for loving you?"

"No. I think I'm just your cup of arsenic laced tea. "

"Oh Sherlock. Arsenic goes best in biscuits." She stood up and held out her hand to help him up. After a couple of attempts, he made it to his feet.

"Brush your teeth, and I'll make you some tea and toast."

He couldn't quite manage his teeth, but he did rinse his mouth out before he padded back to the sitting room. He lay down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. The nausea had mostly subsided, and he was left with a gentle floaty feeling and a sense of wellbeing. He knew it was false and dangerous, but he would deal with the consequences when he came down. Three years of sobriety out the window. This was just a blip, however. Pills and powder were fine in a pinch, but were never as good as an injection.

Molly came back with the promised tea and toast but he didn't feel like sitting up just yet. She sat on the floor and put her hand on his chest.

"Did you leave the bottle out on purpose?" he asked.

"No. I meant to put it back in the drawer. I remember when you relapsed before. I didn't know about your—problems before that. I don't like you like that."

"So all this time, all I needed to drive you away was to destroy my life again?"

She shook her head. "I threw them out, down the drain. So please don't go tearing my room apart the first chance you get."

He blinked a few times to bring her face back into focus. She was looking at him with not a small amount of concern. She placed her fingers on his wrist.

"Am I dying, doctor?"

"Your pulse is a bit thready but your respiratory rate is fine. You aren't getting out of this that easily."

"If I'd wanted that I'd have taken more, or chased it with wine."

She squeezed his wrist at this, digging her nails into his skin. "Shut up," she said. Her eyes glistened but she looked away. Slowly, she released his wrist. He looked at the little crescent shaped marks in his skin, already fading.

"Molly, when are you going to let me go?"

She looked back at him, her eyes dry.

"I'll let you go when I'm sure you won't actually leave."

He laughed, a short, bitter bark that sent him into a coughing fit. She helped him sit up and got up on the sofa beside him, rubbing circles on his back while he drank his tea.

"How many cigarettes did you smoke?"

"Twenty."

"You're going to hurt so badly tomorrow I won't need to punish you."

"Small favors," he said.

He lay down on his side with his head in her lap, her dressing gown cool and silky on his skin. She ran her fingers through his hair and massaged his temples. He was starting to come down, but still felt lovely enough to not mind the contact.

"Is this how you woo all the lads?"

"None of them ever needed their lives saved before."

He rolled onto his back so that he could look up at her.

"You consider this to be saving my life?"

"You do remember what Jim was planning to do, right?"

"Discredit me and force me to kill myself, probably using my friends as leverage, just as you're doing now."

"Yes, and I convinced him to let me have you. And while my motivations are selfish I also didn't want you getting yourself killed."

"I had a plan."

"Oh I remember. In true Sherlock fashion it was too complicated. There were too many variables, the biggest, and the one you continue to underestimate, being Jim Moriarty."

"It would have worked." He sat up and faced her. His head swam for a moment but he was definitely coming down. Quickly. It was always too quick.

"If it had worked, you'd have let your best friend think you were dead. Would have let him watch you die. Can you put yourself in someone else's place long enough to imagine what that would have been like for him? You think that just because he's a soldier that he's unbreakable but he's not. At least this way he has some hope."

"Do you want me to thank you for your generosity?"

"Yes, actually. Because I did this for you despite the fact that all you ever did all these years was use me and belittle me, when you took the time to notice me at all."

"That wasn't even you! You said yourself that you'd have been mean, too."

"If I'd been more assertive, if I'd said no to you more often, would it have mattered? Sally Donovan—"

"Donovan! She's just—"

"She's just someone who doesn't put up with your shit and you treat her worse than you ever treated me. "

He didn't want to listen anymore. He wanted to chase his high into some dark corner of his mind and stay there for weeks. He got up and left the room. She followed him, commanding him to stop.

He ignored her.

His very real anger with her mixed with the irritation brought on by his come down and was fanned into ignition by the shame and guilt of his weakness. He went into his room, shut the door before she could reach him, then slammed his fist into the door over and over while she screamed at him to stop.

"Fuck!" he yelled as the pain finally hit him. He stumbled a few steps back and sat on the floor next to his bed, cradling his hand.

Molly opened the door slowly. She looked him over and turned around and left. She came back a few minutes later with a first aid kit and a bag of frozen peas.

She knelt beside him on the floor and Sherlock reluctantly held out his hand for her to examine. The knuckles were swollen, but he could move it, albeit painfully.

"Nothing appears to be broken," she said. She disinfected the scrapes on his knuckles and removed a few slivers of wood with a pair of tweezers. He leaned back against the bed, watching her dully. When she finished bandaging the scrapes, she gave him the bag of peas and told him to leave it on for at least twenty minutes.

"That was really stupid, you know. All of it," she said as she packed up the first aid kit. "And you know he loves seeing you like this."

He knew. It was a large part of why he was so disgusted with himself.

Three years. He didn't talk about it but it was something he was proud of. Because it wasn't always easy. His brother was always concerned for him when particularly stressful things happened, or if he thought Sherlock was in danger of feeling an emotion. What Mycroft didn't know was that something as simple as seeing another person who was under the influence could be enough to trigger a craving. And since Sherlock saw what so many people didn't, this happened far too often.

For the first time in three years, he set the count back to zero.

The tightness in his chest became an ache, and that ache rose up into his throat. His head hurt with the force he exerted to suppress it, but he couldn't contain it. With a gasp of air and a quivering sob he started to cry. His shoulders shook with it, and his chest heaved. He dropped the makeshift icepack and buried his face in his hands.

Molly reached out to put her arms around him but he shrugged away. She wouldn't relent, however, and finally he collapsed into her, arms clasped tightly around her waist and his head on her chest. She smoothed his hair and gently rocked him until his breathing slowed and his sobs became sniffles.

"It would be so much easier if you'd let yourself love me."

"I—hate you."

"Well, at least you feel something. And you know what they say about that thin line."

He knew. She had him dancing on it.


	16. Chapter 16

The heat broke on the same day that Sherlock was able to hold his bow again, and Molly had taken him outside. She told him to bring his violin and she brought a blanket and picnic basket. She spread the blanket out underneath one of the apple trees. Instead of sitting down, though, she told him she had something to show him and led him to the barn.

She typed a key code into a pad on the door and placed her thumb on a sensor pad.

"The key code changes randomly," she said, knowing he had memorized the numbers.

Inside, the barn was divided into two sections with a long hall down the center. On the right were four steel doors. On the left, one double door. Through this door was a large room containing eight bunk beds (three of the bunks occupied) dining tables (occupied by three men who looked at Molly and Sherlock and went back to their card game) a kitchen and a door that Molly said lead to showers and storage.

"What's through the other doors."

"They're for anything. Private bedrooms. Offices. I'm sure they could be set up as torture chambers quite readily."

"Why are you showing me this now?"

"Because I knew you were starting to doubt they were real."

She took him back to the apple orchard and opened the basket.

"Not for you," she said as she took out a bottle of wine. He flushed, thinking about how he had raged at her for throwing out her pills the morning after his relapse. (She threatened to call her brother if he didn't shut up, he said he didn't care, she locked him in his room.) He had calmed down since, but she was apparently not willing to allow him any mind altering substances. Which was fine with him if it would keep her from drugging him.

She did have a Thermos of tea for him, and sandwiches for both.

When they finished eating, she laid down on her back with her head resting on her hands. He was feeling full and drowsy and was about to follow suit.

"No, you're going to play for me," she said. "Stand up."

He groaned, but got out the violin and complied.

"Now, no matter what, you need to keep playing until I tell you to stop."

He stopped tuning the instrument and looked down at her.

"What happens if I stop?"

"A full day, tied in your bed, no stimulus."

He shrugged and began playing the violin parts from Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. He was about twenty measures in when she sat up. He didn't think much of it and closed his eyes, ready to let the music permeate his mind.

He was halfway through the first movement when he felt a tug on his belt. He fingered several notes wrong, but kept playing as he looked down. Molly was on her knees in front of him and was she about to do what he thought she was about to do?

Closing his eyes again, he concentrated on the music, creating the other instrumental parts in his mind. He faltered again, though, when she got his trousers undone and rubbed him gently through his pants.

Why had he chosen this particular piece? It was not the easiest thing he knew. He leaned back against a tree for support as she released him from his pants. He was hard and aching already and there was no teasing him this time. She took him directly into her mouth and started doing those incredible things with her tongue again.

Sherlock redoubled his efforts to concentrate on the music, fighting to maintain control of at least part of his body and brain. He did not want to lose, especially if losing meant an entire day in that damned bed.

"Fuck," he said as he misfingered a particularly difficult string of notes. But he kept going, ignoring that his playing sounded as screechy and disjointed as it had when he was learning this piece as a boy. She increased her pace and it was all he could do to keep the bow in contact with the strings. Suddenly, she took her mouth off of him.

"You can stop now," she said.

"Oh thank god," he said, and let his arms fall to his sides as she resumed. He looked down at her and she made eye contact with him and that was all it took to send him over the edge, eyes closed and biting his lip. She swallowed again, every last bit, then placed him neatly back into his pants, zipped his trousers and buckled his belt. She took the violin and bow from his limp hands as he slid down to sit with his back against the tree.

"Where," he said, "did you learn to do that?"

She shrugged. "Practice, and some tips from gay friends."

"Do you always do that?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"You know," he said, gesturing vaguely toward his mouth and throat.

"Oh. Usually, but I also usually only suck off people I really like."

She had let him smoke a cigarette after, lying down beside him (but not touching him) on the blanket and watching the wind shake the tree branches. She had pressed a light but lingering kiss—lips salty with the taste of him—on his mouth before they went back inside.

And after that, nothing.

For five days, she didn't touch him any more than was necessary. She didn't invite him to her bed. She never asked or tried to kiss him. She made him take regular meals, sitting in the dining room at a properly set table. She even allowed him full use of all the utensils, though the dishes were still plastic. She was amiable (with only one odd cranky morning when, after breakfast, she had been suddenly frantic about being late for work) and made sure he had enough to keep his mind occupied, even giving him a microscope.

But she seemed to have forgotten that he had a body.

His first conclusion, that she was waiting until she was off her period to resume things, was proven wrong. According to his calculations it had ended several days ago, yet she still insisted on continuing this slightly askew version of platonic domesticity. He had grown fidgety and was constantly on guard, waiting for her to pounce.

And, in moments when he was totally honest, he knew that there was a very small part of him that craved contact with her. He examined that part thoroughly, frightened that he could be developing Stockholm syndrome, but he came to the conclusion that it was merely his body reacting to new and pleasurable stimulus, and wanting more. John had once told him that the first few days after breaking a dry spell were worse than the weeks or months leading up to it, if the sex was a one off. He'd told John that it sounded similar to what happens after a drug relapse.

He has spent five days tensing up when she walked in the room, when she sighed loudly or changed positions in her chair when they were in the same room.

He has spent five days feeling restless whenever they weren't in the same room.

Twelve days in this house. Seven days sober. Five days since she last touched him in a sexual way.

Twelve day since he first woke up chained to this bed.

He was chained to the bed again on that thirteenth morning morning—a dreary and cold one—and she was busy torturing him.

He had been reading in bed when she slipped quietly through his door earlier, holding her dressing gown tightly around herself. She crawled into the bed, snuggling tightly against him under the covers.

He had felt a drop in his stomach not unlike the feeling of vertigo. His muscles tensed in anticipation of her next move and there was a traitorous tightening in his groin.

Again, nothing. She lay beside him with her eyes closed. No hand grazing his cock through his pyjama bottoms. No fingers snaking their way under his shirt with nails raking across his chest. She looked as though she were trying to fall asleep again.

"Molly," he said. "This is ridiculous. Whatever you're planning will you please just do it?"

She sat up. When he didn't put his book down to look at her, she took it from him and tossed it off the bed.

"I was cold, but I wasn't ready to get up and make a fire. Not everything is about you and your dick."

"Considering the situation we're in right now, I would definitely contradict that statement."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I don't want you to do anything, though I am curious as to why you've barely touched me in five days."

She leaned toward him. "I don't quite think that's true. I know you think about it, now that you know what it's like and now that you have real memories instead of fantasies. So tell me, what do you want me to do?"

"I'd like you to lie back down and go to sleep if that's what you came in here for. I'd like to finish my book."

"No, I think you want me to touch you."

In that moment he had thought seriously of pretending that he was finally falling for her; if she was going to take him anyway, he might as well make it easier on himself.

The problem was that she wouldn't fall for it. She would look at him and know. She was nothing if not an expert on the ways in which Sherlock Holmes will flirt to get what he wants. She was nothing if not an expert on Sherlock Holmes. She looked at him and saw things he was loathe to ever know about himself.

He remained silent.

"Clothes off," she said, getting out of bed.

There was reason to bother protesting. He took off his pyjamas and tossed them on the floor.

"Arms and legs out."

Oh. Well, this was not what he had expected. He hadn't been tied up since the day she had gone to the village. He complied, still silent. She secured him in the restraints and left the room briefly. She came back with the riding crop.

"Don't look so alarmed," she said. "I'm not going to hit you. But I know you're dying to be touched."

Starting behind his left ear, she ran the tip of the crop diagonally across his chest and down the length of his right leg. Her pace was slow and her touch feather light. It was excruciating.

She continued, up his left leg and across his chest, this time grazing his nipple.

"Do you want me to touch you, with my hands?" She asked. He didn't answer.

She switched her focus to his arms. He had never considered the wrists to be an erogenous zone, but judging by the effect her attention to them had on his rapidly swelling cock, they most definitely were.

"Or, do you want to touch me? I think you do. You still haven't gotten the chance to put those massive hands of yours on my tits, have you?"

He refused to reply as she brushed his inner thigh with the crop, though his intake of breath was quite audible.

She leaned over him, her hair loose and falling on his chest. She whispered in his ear, "You can, you know. You can put those big, dirty hands all over me. All you have to do is ask."


	17. Chapter 17

He didn't ask. She would do what she wanted and he was resigned to it.

She moved to the end of the bed and removed the restraints from his ankles. He expected her to release his wrists next, but instead, she let untied her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. She was only wearing knickers underneath. She was beautifully proportioned; if her breasts were much larger, they would overwhelm her small frame. He pictured his hand on her belly, caressing its curved softness and tracing the swell of her hips.

She smiled wryly and sat on the edge of the bed. She laid her hand flat on his chest and ran it down to his abdomen, her thumb barely grazing the head of his penis as she made her way back up.

"Your body," she said as she ran that same thumb across his nipple.

"What about it?" he asked when he could speak again.

"You would never know how beautiful it really is, underneath your suits. Of course you look magnificent in them, but you're so slight, I'm sure people think you look quite sickly underneath."

"I don't really think a lot about what other people think.

"I know." She smiled. "You know, though, as beautiful as you are, it's really this that turns me on the most," she said, running her finger along his forehead and down to his jawline.

"My face?"

"Your brain, you arse."

"Oh. Are you going to release my arms?"

"No, I think those bonds will stay on a bit longer."

She placed a small kiss on his jaw.

"Is this it, then?"

"I was going to wait a couple more days, but I don't think it would make much difference, do you?"

"I think we're on the same page for once."

She kneeled on the bed and leaned over him, placing her hands on the mattress on either side of his chest. Her breasts were barely grazing his skin. His fingers twitched at the effort to keep his hands still.

"If you relax, it'll be easier. You'll like it more. I'm not going to hurt you." She stood up and pulled her knickers down. His gaze honed in on the triangle of pubic hair, which he had only seen the day she bathed him. She stepped closer to the bed.

"You can touch it, you know. All you have to do is ask. You can put your fingers inside me. You can put your tongue on me. You can suck on me like I did for you."

He didn't ask. She got back on the bed and positioned herself just below his pelvis. She straddled his legs and took him in hand.

"Shouldn't we be using a condom?" he asked shakily.

"I'm on the pill and we're both clean, so what's the point?" She bent down and flicked the tip of his cock with her tongue, which sent jolt of nearly painful pleasure through his entire body.

"How do you know I'm clean?"

"Well, you're a virgin with little to no sexual experience and you're hardly the type to have shared needles or hustled for drugs. Plus I took a peek at your records one day."

He thought it pointless to complain about the violation of privacy, considering the fact that she had his dick in her hand. It was becoming harder to form coherent sentences anyway.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Would it matter?"

"No."

Molly positioned herself so that she was on all fours, her body hovering over his. She kissed him and whispered, " Remember how my mouth felt on you? This will be a hundred times better, or so I've heard. Don't fight it."

She sat back and he felt her, slick and hot against his length. How had he never thought it would be so soft? She rolled her hips the tiniest bit and he bucked against her. He understood then why she had untied his feet; she wanted him to have enough leverage to thrust into her.

She got on her knees again, took him in hand and positioned him at her entrance. His hips rose instinctively but she rose up and shook her head. "Not all at once. Nice and slow."

He understood why as soon as she began to lower herself onto him. He knew all about female anatomy, of course, but he had never stopped to consider just how strongly a woman's muscles could grip him. He always thought it'd be similar to one's hand, just—wetter.

He was wrong. It was definitely wet, and very warm, but she was so tight that even fully aroused, she had to ease him into her. He could feel her opening up a bit more with each stroke, but she still just—clung to him. It was the only way his hormone addled mind could describe it. She fit around him like she was made for him. He didn't know how anything could be so strong while being so yielding.

He didn't know how people just went on with their lives after experiencing this.

When he thought that she was seated on him all the way, she widened her legs to fully accommodate him, a quiet moan escaping her. She opened her eyes and looked into his.

This had happened. Even if she stopped now, she had taken him. It was irreversible.

Eyes still locked with his, she began to move, sliding up and down on his prick and rolling her hips against him on the down stroke. She instructed him breathily, telling him to thrust up when she came down, and before long they were in sync.

What he had imagined was something slightly messy but mostly mechanical. His mind flashed briefly to a dystopian novel he'd read years ago. The word pneumatic used in reference to sex. But no, this was pistons and spark plugs and motor oil everywhere—

"Sherlock." He opened his eyes. She leaned forward—creating a whole new set of sensations—and stroked his cheek. "Stay with me. Right here." She was still riding him, relentlessly, though now he could feel her breasts brushing against his chest and he did want to touch them. He wanted it more than anything he'd ever wanted, even while the rational part of his brain, which had retreated so far as to be barely a whisper, kept up a steady stream of reminders of the biological processes that were causing this reaction.

He silenced it. It didn't matter why he wanted it. He just wanted. More specifically, he wanted to hold her by the hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there hard enough to leave a mark. He wanted to slam her down on his cock until he was as deep as he could go. He wanted to put his hands and mouth on her everywhere he could. And there was only one thing standing in the way. His arms were straining against the padded cuffs so hard that his arms were shaking.

"Molly. Molly."

"What?" she said, leaning back again, her body on full display. He was momentarily distracted, watching his dick moving in and out of her and her hand working her clitoris.

"Molly. Please."

"Please—what?" She was breathing so heavily that the words were barely more than gasps.

"Please. Let me—touch you," he said.

In that instant, an orgasm ripped through her. She tightened around him—he hadn't realized she could get any tighter—and she braced herself with one hand behind her on his thigh, the other hand still at her center. She moaned deeply as her muscles squeezed and released him over and over. When the contractions stopped and she opened her eyes, she leaned forward and freed his right hand. Her hands were trembling so much that it was difficult to work the buckles. The moment it was free, his hand flew to her left breast, palming it roughly and reaching over to knead her right breast with his fingers. When his left hand was free, he wrapped his arms around her and sat up, pulling her tightly against his body. His hands roamed all over her, back to front and in her hair.

"You feel so fucking good," she whispered . He didn't answer. He had her nipple in his mouth, reveling in her salty skin and the contrast of the supple flesh and the hard peak.

He gripped her hips and pulled her down on him as hard as he could. This was almost, but not quite it. He wanted to be closer but also deeper. He gave her other nipple a hard pinch and pushed her onto her back. She protested when he pulled out of her in order to get on his knees, but grinned as he sat back on his heels and pulled her toward him by the hips. He looked down at her. She looked triumphant. He wondered if he looked as wrecked she did, eyes wild and hair everywhere. He didn't care. He didn't even care that she had won. He wanted to disappear inside her.

Sherlock hunched over her, putting his mouth all over her breasts and belly as he gripped her waist. He stretched over her and put his hand between them, guiding himself back inside her. She put one leg around him and braced herself with the other so that she could meet his thrusts.

Yes, this was exactly it.

There were so many sensations, so many he'd never even thought of. Her body underneath his, the softness of her skin, the way they slid against each other in places they were sweaty. Her breath and her soft moans in his ear and the sting of her fingernails on his shoulders and the cramps in his legs and his shaking arms. All of it coalesced into a kind of pleasure that could only be likened to his first hit of cocaine and his first hit of heroine combined. He wondered how much of his life he could waste chasing after this feeling. At least with drugs it had been a choice.

Then, as she fell apart again, writhing underneath him, he felt the familiar tightening in his body and for a few precious seconds his mind was completely blank and he was nothing but that hard, bright pleasure. He bit into her shoulder to stifle his moans as he spilled into her.

As his mind came back, he collapsed on her, gasping into her neck as he absently kneaded her shoulder. They lay there, hearts pounding, Molly stroking the back of his neck . When their breath had calmed, she gently pushed him off her and rolled to her side.

Sleep descended on him rapidly as the cocktail of hormones assaulted his brain. As he looked at her through half closed lids, she whispered that she loved him, and the look in her eyes made him believe that it might be true.

Sherlock dreamed of making tea at Baker Street. He is expecting a visitor but he can only find one cup. He searches everywhere, and finally finds it in the fireplace, only to discover that the other teacup had gone missing. He forced himself from sleep. He was frustrated and disoriented. They hadn't been asleep very long.

Molly was curled against him, one leg thrown over his and her hand resting on his chest. She woke up when he did, lifted her head from his shoulder and beamed at him.

Her sleepy eyes were soft. She looked blissful. She had gotten exactly what she wanted.

So Sherlock did what he was best at when Molly Hopper was happy. He ruined it.

He pulled away from her and got out of bed, arranging his features in as passive an expression as he could manage. He put on his boxers and pyjama bottoms. She didn't start to look worried until he picked up his book and pulled the duvet over his knees.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm finishing my book. That may have been my first time, but I'm pretty certain that you got what you wanted. Twice." He looked up from his book. "Was there anything else you needed?"

She was still naked, her skin glowing, her hair tangled and wild from where he had his hands in it and where the back of her head had rubbed against the mattress. She was beautiful, and he did take a primal satisfaction in the fact that he had caused her to look that way. But the reaction he really relished was the way her eyes had gone from soft and loving to hurt and angry in a matter of moments.

"Oh, I see," he said, looking back at his book. "My enthusiasm gave you hope that my feelings might be changing. Molly, you know the human body better than I do. The release of hormones, the shutting down of certain areas of the brain, particularly the lateral orbitofrontal cortex, which as you know, is the very center of reason and control. All biological, Molly. What are you, a teenager, believing that you can get a man to love you by giving him use of your vagina?"

"Shut up," she said, getting up to put her dressing gown back on.

"Not quite going as you expected? Reality hardly ever meets our expectations, does it? You're old enough to know that by now." He turned a page even though he hadn't comprehended anything he just read.

"Shut your fucking mouth."

"No," he said, setting his book down and looking in her eyes. "You don't get to have good memories about this."

"I will kill you if you don't shut up."

"No you won't. The only way I'll be killed is if I try to hurt you physically or if I try to escape. You aren't the only one who can use emotion as a weapon. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to be alone."

"You want to be alone?" she said in a small, calm voice.

"Yes."

"Fine!" she said. "Be fucking alone forever for all I care." She left the room and slammed the door. A few seconds later, he heard the key turning in the lock.

"Fuck."


	18. Chapter 18

The sound of the rain dripping off the eaves was driving Sherlock crazy. He hadn't had anything to drink in forty hours, and for once, he cursed his laziness. It had prevented him from getting water or tea before settling in with his book the previous morning.

It was always quite simple to go without food for the sake of work. Fluids had always been trickier. He hated the interruption of having to urinate, but dehydration was hard to ignore and could knock him off his feet.

At least it was still relatively cool, though the room was stuffy and still reeked of sex.

It didn't help that he still smelled of sex. When he had tried to get some sleep he stripped the bed and laid on the bare mattress, but it was on his skin and he could only escape it by retreating deep into his mind. That was fine—he had a lot of sorting to do—but he couldn't stay there forever.

He also couldn't stay in his room forever. Last time she had only locked him in for a few hours. Now it was going on thirty and the only sounds he'd heard from Molly were her footsteps coming up the stairs when she went to her room the night before, and going down that morning.

He hoped he hadn't made a grave miscalculation in thinking she wouldn't kill or seriously injure him. He told himself she was just trying to scare him. She would obviously know how long she could withhold water, but even though he hadn't been properly hydrated to begin with and had engaged in rather strenuous physical activity, she could still keep him here for days without serious damage, if the weather remained mild.

Stupid for letting his anger get the best of him. Why couldn't he just give her what she wanted? A cuddle and maybe another shag? Would it have been so terrible? He had enjoyed it and he was a bit intrigued at the idea of discovering and cataloging the way she reacted to different stimuli. If anything, it wouldn't be boring, at least for a while.

Christ, he was getting hard just thinking about it. As if he needed any further proof that avoiding sex was the best idea he'd ever had.

He had to figure out a way to fix this, at least for the sake of relative peace and his physical wellbeing. The first step would be to talk to her.

He went to the door and knocked on it. "Molly! Please let me out. I, erm, don't have anything left in here to piss in and other things are becoming urgent as well."

Silence.

"Molly, please. Let's—talk about this. Like grownups."

Nothing, though he thought he could hear her moving around in the sitting room. It sounded like she was moving furniture.

"Molly! I swear I will just break it down." That would be easier said than done, since the door opened into the room.

Still nothing. There was a knock on the front door. She spoke to someone briefly, a male voice, then shut the door. Relief washed over him when he heard her footsteps on the stairs.

She unlocked the door and opened it. She wouldn't look him in the eye.

"Go downstairs and get cleaned up. Jim's coming."

When he emerged from the bathroom, dressed and scrubbed to the point that his skin was red, she was in the kitchen making tea. He watched her as he downed his third glass of water since being let out of his room. She was using the best service and there were biscuits in the oven. She was playing it normal, like any couple expecting a visit from family.

She still wouldn't talk to him or meet his eye. He went to the sitting room. It, like the rest of the house, looked as though it had been scoured. He recalled her saying to him once, when he found her aggressively organizing the cabinets in the lab after a particularly bad date, that she cleaned when she was upset. Apparently that was a real Maggie thing.

He also noticed that the dog bed and the puppies were gone.

Sherlock went back to the kitchen. He hoped that his stupidity hadn't led to the harm of innocent animals.

"Molly, where are Lucy and the puppies?"

"They're at the barn. They're getting too big to keep in the house. Besides, they're almost ready to be weaned and sold and I'd rather not get too attached."

He sighed in relief. She wheeled around to face him.

"Did you think I'd done something to them? Because I'm mad at you?"

"Perhaps," he said sheepishly. He helped her get the tea tray down from a high shelf.

"Why would you think that? You know I wouldn't—"

"No, I don't. I don't know you at all. Not really."

She looked at him for a long time with sorrowful eyes, hugging the tea tray against her like a shield. When the tea kettle whistled, she turned away to deal with it. Her shoulders were slumped and she looked even smaller than usual.

"I can't have this conversation right now. He'll be here soon."

The Range Rover was just pulling up as they went back to the sitting room with the tea things. Molly set the tray on a side table and opened the door.

"Dear sister," Moriarty said as he came in. He was flawlessly dressed as usual, hair immaculate and freshly cut. He winked at Sherlock as he kissed Molly on the cheek.

"Well, look at you, Sherlock. You're positively glowing," he said as he sat in Molly's chair.

"I highly doubt that my skin is still showing the effects of physical exertion and orgasm after more than a day, especially since I spent that day being deprived of water."

"Such a temper on that one. I warned you, though. Didn't I?"

Sherlock moved to sit on the sofa, but Moriarty cleared his throat and pointed to Sherlock's usual chair. When Molly tried to go to the sofa, he did the same thing. Molly blushed and sat on Sherlock's knee.

"There. Aren't you two adorable? What was it you said to dear Maggie? Domestic bliss suits you. Though, Maggie, I do have to say I'm disappointed. If you want him treated like a POW, you may as well send him with me."

"You wouldn't," she said. "We had a deal."

"I think I'd like to have a little fun, though. Take him for a few days, break him down really nicely, then drop him off at the doorstep of Scotland Yard. Maybe kill John Watson and frame Sherlock for it? Or should I kill Sherlock and frame the good doctor? So many choices."

"No, Jim. You promised."

"Well, why don't we leave it up to Sherlock. Would you rather stay here and play house with little Maggie or take your chances with me?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate. "I think I'll take my chances with you."

"Bastard," Molly whispered. He wasn't sure which one of them she was referring to.

"Too bad, you're stuck here playing hausfrau for a bit longer. Oh, don't look at me like that. I never said you actually had a choice; I just wanted to know what you would choose. I'm very keen to see how this little drama plays out, especially now that Maggie knows you'd rather face torture and death with me than fuck her again."

"Bastard," she said again, more loudly, and definitely directed at her brother.

"I think you're forgetting yourself, Margaret," he said, all levity gone from his voice. She looked down and the grin returned. "Now are you going to pour the tea like a good hostess?"

She did as she was told, pouting the entire time. Moriarty made her continue to sit on Sherlock's lap while they had their tea. He updated them on everything that was happening in London, which wasn't much. The manhunt was at a standstill, though John and Lestrade were doing their best in an unofficial capacity. Neither would go to Mycroft because they blamed him for giving Moriarty the ammunition to make his Richard Brook story believable.

"But we know that's not true, don't we? I'll give it to you, that was quite clever, creating a false rift between brothers. And I think your plan had a decent chance of working. Well, strike that. It would only have worked with Molly Hooper's help, which you were never going to get. So you should probably be more grateful to her for pulling you out of that mess." He turned his gaze to his sister. "I do wonder, though, what you would have done if I'd said no?"

She met his gaze but didn't reply. He gave her a brotherly smile.

"Well, I should be off. You know how it is, hits to arrange, databases to hack, kidnappings to fake, that sort of thing. Oh, Sherlock, before I go." He held out his hand. Molly slid off Sherlock's lap as he stood and crossed to her brother. Sherlock looked down at the proffered hand, and Moriarty took the opportunity to punch him in the nose. His vision blanked as pain exploded across his face and he went to his knees.

"What the fuck, Jim?" Molly said, kneeling beside Sherlock.

"That's just for breaking my little sister's heart for five years." He flexed his left hand a few times then examined his knuckles. "Well, maybe getting my hands dirty isn't too bad, every once in a while." He handed his pocket square to Molly, bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and left.

Molly helped Sherlock over to the sofa, holding the pocket square to Sherlock's nose. She made him sit down and showed him where to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'll be right back," she said. She returned with some wet flannels and the bag of peas.

She wiped the blood from his face then had him stop putting pressure on the bridge. "Bleeding's stopped. You can put the ice pack on now."

Is this the same bag of peas?"

"Yes. It thawed completely so this is the only thing it's good for now."

"So you were anticipating further injuries?"

"It's always good to be prepared. I'm glad it's not broken."

"Not nearly as glad as me." He leaned back and groaned. "I'm going to have a black eye, aren't I?"

"Probably."

"I don't understand. Why would he treat you like shit and then punch me for doing the same?"

"That's how it is with siblings," she said.

He thought about it. He and Mycroft were always sparring, but Mycroft would likely topple kingdoms to protect him. Sherlock supposed he might be willing to topple a city for Mycroft, if necessary. He could laugh at the things John said about his brother (and John did a wicked impression of him) but probably wouldn't stand it from anything else.

"I suppose you're right. Crazy bastard."

"Hey, that's my brother you're talking about."

He looked at her nervously, but she was smiling. Her smile faded and she looked down at her hands.

"Would you really have gone with him?"

"It would have been forward motion, change. It would have gotten me out of here, where it's very clear I have no way to escape. With you it's like being a rat in a cage. With him, I can at least try to solve the maze."

"There's no reward at the end with him, though."

"At least I'd have choices."

"Was it really that horrible?"

"It was exquisite. But it wasn't my choice, and never would have been."


	19. Chapter 19

Molly closed her eyes and put her head in her hands. "I just want you to love me back."

"I've doubted for a very long time that I'm capable of loving people—at least in that way. But even if I were, from what I gather, actually knowing someone is vital to loving them. To really loving them, apart from infatuation or sexual attraction."

"Do you even believe in that kind of love?"

"Not really, but other people do, and it seems to be a common theme, the knowing someone part."

"So you definitely don't believe in love at first sight?"

"No."

"But what about—"

"Infatuation. Fascination. Loneliness. Subject closed."

"Okay," She said. She lifted his hand, along with the frozen peas, from his face and examined his nose. "Swelling won't be too bad. Do you want some Paracetamol?"

"May as well," he said.

She made a trip to the kitchen to get rid of the icepack and the flannels and came back with the medicine and a glass of water.

"I threw the peas away, so I'm either going to have to stock up on gel packs, or we'll be forced to use carrots next time."

"I sincerely hope that there won't be any more punching. Of doors or faces."

"Me,too,"she said softly. She stoked the fire up before sitting back on the sofa.

"You know, not everything was a lie. Most of Molly Hooper was just a softer version of me. There's no way I could have kept it up that long, otherwise.

"Enlighten me, then. Tell me about Maggie Moriarty."

She looked at him warily. She seemed to be gauging whether he was truly interested, was making fun of her, or had ulterior motives.

"Well," she said. "You already know that I love to bake. I also like cats. A lot. I really miss Toby. I wish there had been a way to bring him here. Same taste in music but I had to play it up a little with the romance novels and romantic comedies. I'm more into science fiction. Oh, and I actually can make a really good cup of coffee. Doing it badly was just a really petty way of getting back at you for being such a tit all the time."

"I think you're going to have to prove that one. Your coffee is absolute swill"

"But you kept drinking it, didn't you? Oh. I hope you've noticed that unlike Molly Hooper, I am actually capable of dressing myself. I swear that was the biggest mistake I made, making that part of the persona. I used to go to the shops on my days off just to touch the nice clothes. Even on Molly's budget I could have looked decent, but no, I had to go with charity shop bargain bin chic."

"Clothes are an important part of a disguise."

"Five years, Sherlock. Imagine giving up your suits that long."

"Two weeks has been bad enough."

"You start to lose who you are."

"Wasn't that the point, though?"

She looked at him. She lifted her hand and reached out momentarily before jerking it back, wringing it with the other one in her lap.

She was refraining from touching him again. Before, it had been about depriving him of what he'd gotten used to in order to make him want it more: the caresses to his face, her hand on the small of his back or on his bicep, her fingers in his hair. This was different, however. She looked uncertain, and he realized that she had not been unsure about any of her actions since she had brought him here.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"I think we're past the point of lying to one another."

"Okay." She took a deep breath. "I won't do it again. I won't force you. It was stupid, even if it was magnificent."

And just like that, the air between them was electric as they both remembered it.

He, very specifically, remembered the way her breasts had bounced when she was riding him, and the flush that had crept over them as she orgasmed. He wanted to ask her what part she was thinking about, but she looked away and got up to clear away the tea things.

"So, er, it's weird just talking about myself like that, like listing things. I don't know. Like I'm interviewing for a job or something. It's all just trivia."

"Well then, let's dig deeper. What would you have done if Jim had said no to your request to keep me."

She took the tray into the kitchen without answering. He considered following her, but even slight movements made his entire face pulse with pain. She came back shortly, obviously putting the washing up off until later, and sat in front of the fire.

"You know, I don't even really know. Which is funny, because I was so surprised when he said yes. The whole time I was asking him, I thought he'd refuse, but I didn't have a contingency plan." She looked at him, her eyes big and glossy and sad.

"He wasn't going to just have me refuse to help you. He wanted me to pretend to help you, and then, just, not do it. I would have had to watch you die." A tear slipped down her cheek and she scrubbed at it fiercely before turning back to the fire.

Sherlock forgot the pain in his face and went to her. He knelt beside her. "What would he have done if you had gone against him?"

"He'd have killed us both. No matter where we went. And he'd have still made me watch."

Sherlock leaned over and whispered in her ear, willing the microphone not to pick it up over the crackling of the fire.

"What would he do if you went against him now?"

She pulled back and looked at him, then shook her head. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, careful not to touch him. "Everyone dies."

Sherlock kept his voice low and his head close to hers. "Before you drugged me that first time, before you brought me here, you said that he owed you a favor."

"He did. Several of a client's drug mules died from overdose-burst balloons-and I lied about cause of death so there wouldn't be any suspicion. But all that got me was this. I probably owe him way more than that. He wouldn't stand for it. And I don't know if I could betray him. He's my brother and he's the only family I have left."

"Let me go, then. It's your choice, right?"

"The second I let you go he'll scoop you right back up again. And I don't care what you say, Sherlock, you don't want to be in that situation. He would break you. Then he would build you up again, just a little, then tear it all down again. Over and over and over."

"Then let my brother rescue me. You have a phone, right? Just text him. A general location. We'll make sure you get out alive."

"Sherlock, I don't have a mobile."

"Molly," he said warningly and she shushed him.

"I don't," she whispered. "Jim and I aren't stupid. Don't you think if I had one you'd have found it by now? I know you've been looking and there aren't that many places to hide something here."

"So you just—"

"Yes, I just relay anything I need to the boys via the mics or I just go out there and talk to them."

His disappointment was accompanied by a feeling of vertigo. He really had begun to give up the search, but he obviously had still been holding onto a small bit of hope. "I need to lie down," he said. He made it to the sofa and curled up on it, facing the back of it.

"Are you pouting?" she said from her spot by the fire.

"Maybe a bit. I think I'm well within my rights to do so, am I not?"

"Suit yourself," she said. "But you only get five minutes. Fucked up face or not, I expect some help with these dishes."

He groaned as she retreated down the hallway, singing an Irish folk tune.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock sat on the front stoop, smoking a cigarette and watching some ants swarm a fallen piece of the biscuit he'd just eaten. They had been working on it for about ten minutes and had managed to carry half of it away.

The biscuit, chocolate chip, was one he'd made himself. Well, with Molly's help. She had insisted on teaching him how to bake, calling it applied chemistry. When he had scoffed, she showed him a recipe.

"This recipe makes soft, chewy biscuits. How would I alter it to get thin, crisp ones?"

He peered at it for a moment. "More soda. Less egg and more milk to lower the viscosity. Don't melt the butter first."

"Let's test your hypothesis, then." They had made two batches, and of course he had been correct. They'd been living on baked goods the last few days, and what should have been agitated boredom had become a sort of languid torpor, akin to what he used to experience on long holidays with his family, and which sometimes struck him between cases.

A mug of tea was growing cold and scummy beside him, forgotten in his fascination with the ants. He imagined their colony, somewhere below ground, with thousands of other ants like these performing their endless tasks, all to keep the queen alive to create more workers. There was a metaphor in there somewhere, but he didn't feel like finding it.

He looked up and saw Molly making her way back from the barn. She'd gone to take a shower, saying she'd had enough of washing her hair in the bath. She was wearing a long skirt and thin white cotton vest. Her hair was wet.

Though he'd lashed out at her verbally more than once since Moriarty's last visit, it had happened with far less force and frequency. He was still angry with her, but that was tempered by his now seeing her, in some way, as a co-captive instead of just his captor.

He recognized fully how dangerous that line of thinking could be.

As she came closer, he saw that her top was almost transparent in the places where her wet hair clung to it. And that she wasn't wearing a bra. She said hello and as she walked past to go into the house, he grabbed her hand, stroking her wrist and palm with his thumb.

"Don't say things you don't mean," she said, continuing into the house.

He lit a new cigarette off the end of his old one and considered stubbing the old one out in the middle of the swarm of ants. He sighed and stubbed it out on the step, then set it aside to throw away later.

What was Moriarty's game? Did he want Sherlock to lose himself in a haze of carbohydrates and sex? Would that prove Sherlock was just ordinary? He hadn't had sex with her again, but it was something he felt was inevitable, on the horizon like a storm cloud or a foreign war. The night before, he'd masturbated-quickly, joylessly, biting his palm to keep her from hearing his moans-while he thought about how tightly she closed her eyes when she came.

What was Moriarty's game when it came to her? He'd let her build her own prison, which she had gladly walked into, knowing that Sherlock would either die trying to escape, or would almost certainly die if she let him go. Could it be as simple as jealousy? Was her brother punishing her for caring about someone else? If so, why, after so many years?

Because she loved Sherlock so much that she had begged that he be spared, instead of reveling in his destruction. Perhaps Moriarty had never truly believed that her love went that far, because he was incapable of such love himself.

Or maybe he was just perverse enough to give her what she thought she wanted, only to have Sherlock reject her again and again.

He would go mad thinking about it. And sometimes he thought that if he wasn't feeling so apathetic about everything he'd just make a run for it and wait for the bullet.

He stubbed the second cigarette out and went inside. She was in the kitchen, making out a shopping list. She had sent one of the men for the shopping last week, but she told him that she wanted to go herself this time. He pouted, feeling it was entirely unfair that she got to leave, and she told him quite ruthlessly that she didn't fucking care.

So much for being co-captives.

"Please tell me you're not going to tie me up this time. At least give me that?"

"I think I can trust you and I won't be gone quite as long this time. Now, as much as I've loved living off of cakes and pies I think I need to get us some fruit and veg before we die of scurvy."

"At least that'd be a change of pace."

She smiled and touched his cheek, something she hadn't done in ages. She realized it as soon as he did and moved to step back, but he grabbed her wrist.

"Sherlock, this isn't what you want."

"Since when does that matter to you?" he said, taking hold of her other wrist and pulling her closer.

She licked her lips and fixed those big brown eyes on him. "Sherlock, I don't know if you're bored or angry with me for leaving or both but whatever it is, stop it."

"Isn't this what you wanted?" he said, speaking low, directly into her ear. He smiled when she shivered against him.

"I told you, not like this," she said, as she tried to twist away from him. He pulled her close again.

"But I'm coming to you. Does it matter why?" He leaned in even closer. "I heard you the other night. Just barely. Tiny whimpers and the squeak of bed springs. Were you fucking yourself with your fingers, Molly? I never got to use my fingers on you, did I?" He released one of her wrists and put his hand on her thigh, inching her skirt up her leg with said fingers.

"Sherlock," she said through gritted teeth. He looked at her. She was definitely aroused—flushed and breathing heavily-but she was also angry. "Stop it. Right now."

He looked at her for a moment longer, then abruptly released her, holding up his hands. "Fine. Have fun looking at faces other than mine. I'll just stay here and dissect an earthworm or something. Again."

"You'd be better served by a good wank and a cold bath," she said as she gathered her things to leave.

"I hope you're at least going to put on a bra," he said.

"Actually, no. It keeps people from looking too closely at my face." She put her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, threw on a straw trilby and a pair of thick framed glasses. She did put on a cardigan, though it was unbuttoned and did nothing to conceal her rock hard nipples or the curve of her breasts. She was right. If he were an ordinary person and met her on the street, he would probably not be able to recall her face later.

He followed her down the hall. She patted him on the head before she left.

"Be good," she said, and left. He watched her drive off in the little blue Mini that one of the goons had brought 'round.

She didn't come back for two days.


	21. Chapter 21

He wasn't aware of her extended absence until she had been gone eight hours. He retreated into his mind almost as soon as she left. He hadn't taken into consideration that attempting to get a reaction from her would elicit one in him, and he sure as hell wasn't going to take her advice about a wank and a bath. So he'd done what used to come so easily; he ignored it. He used the time to again go over everything he knew about Molly before she had kidnapped him and everything he knew about her now, examining the data from different angles.

Two things emerged. One, that she had suddenly started taking more personal days after the Jim from IT affair. Also, she had stopped dating after. If he'd noticed at the time, he would have dismissed it as a result of her latest love interest being a possibly gay criminal mastermind. But had it been when the plotting had begun in earnest?

A knock on the door drew him out. He assumed she'd come back while was occupied, but he didn't hear her anywhere in the house. He went to the door. One of the minions, a short, stocky blond whom he had seen several times (was he called Padraic?) stood on the stoop with a box of groceries and two carrier bags.

"She had 'em delivered," he said. "There's some books and things, too." He indicated another nondescript bag from the bookseller.

Sherlock opened the door wider for the man, who went straight to the kitchen.

"Why did she have the shopping delivered? She should be back by now. It's almost four."

"All I know is she sent a message with the shopping, said she wouldn't be back until tomorrow, and to keep an extra eye or two on you."

"She told me that she'd be back sooner than she was last time."

"One thing I've learned when it comes to that little slapper is that you'll never make heads or tails of anything she does. But her brother's the boss so we do what she says."

"Have you known her long?"

"Long enough. Well, I'm off. You'll want to be puttin' some of that in the fridge."

He pondered while he put the shopping away. It had to have been a last minute decision; otherwise she would have told Padraic and friends sooner.

Also, she hadn't taken much with her. Of course, that didn't really matter since she had unlimited funds and wouldn't have wanted to cause suspicion. She could be running, or making some other maneuver. No one would expect her back for another day, which would give her a substantial lead.

"Don't do anything stupid," he muttered. He tried to recall if there had been anything unusual about her appearance or demeanor, but all he could remember were her damned tits.

He laughed. Christ, she was clever.

He took an apple out of the box and bit into it. Perhaps she was just entering into further negotiations with her brother, on more neutral territory. It was somewhat frightening to think what else she might consider to be in his best interests, and what she might be bargaining with.

He shrugged and moved that line of questioning to the background. He would use this unexpected free time to finally have a good look around the house. If the boys in the barn had a problem with it, they'd surely let him know soon enough.

Her room was locked, but he scavenged a hair grip from the medicine cabinet and picked the lock in under a minute.

The room told him nothing about her other than her interests as a young girl (horses,biology,Jane Austen) and her current sartorial habits and reading preferences (medical journals, murder mysteries,biographies.) He picked the lock on her desk only to find a stack of cash and a passport in each of her names. So she wasn't planning on leaving the country, unless she had yet another alias.

There were no real clues in the rest of the house, so he spent the remainder of the day seething and playing his violin. He hated how familiar he was getting with this instrument and how his fingers could barely recall the curves of the one back home.

But on he played.

It was well past midnight when he put the violin away. He stretched and went upstairs, determined to sleep in her bed because it was more comfortable, and because she had locked her door. But lying in her bed, breathing in her scent, was too much like being wrapped up in her body. His own bed was a crime scene without any mystery. So he curled up on the sofa and dozed fitfully.

When she still hadn't returned by the next afternoon, he went to the barn. Padraic was standing outside smoking. A taller dark haired man was playing tug of war with one of Lucy's puppies, which seemed to have doubled in size since Sherlock had last seen it. While Padraic's role was mostly that of lackey, this man was obviously a sharp shooter. Some military training but mostly mercenary.

"Oi, Ian," the smaller man said. "His Highness has come to visit."

"Well, Sherly. To what do we owe this pleasure?" Ian straightened to his full height and lit a cigarette.

"She's not back and as my fortune seems to be tied to hers I'd like to know if that is any cause for alarm."

"Haven't heard from her," said Ian.

"Are you certain she said she would be back today?"

"Yeah, that's what the note said," Padraic chimed in.

"Do you still have it?"

Padraic rolled his eyes and fished a scrap of brown paper out of his jacket pocket. Sherlock recognized her sprawling medical school chicken scratch immediately. It looked to have been written hastily, but not under duress.

_Paddy,_

_I've run into some unexpected business I need to take care of. Will be back tomorrow morning. Please make sure my houseguest is well attended to. He can get frightfully bored when left to his own devices. _

_-Mags_

"According to this she should have been back by now."

"Beats me, like I said before, can't make heads or tails of that one."

"Mebbe she found a boy she don't have to tie down to shag," Ian said, elbowing his companion in the arm.

"Aw don't look like that, mate," said Padraic. "We don't get to see anything. The boss is pretty strict about that."

"Wouldn't have to tie me down," Ian continued. "You've seen the arse on her? Sherly, we don't know why you haven't had more fun with your current situation. She's completely mental but the crazy ones'll usually let you stick it anywhere."

Sherlock smiled thinly. "Thank you for your invaluable input, Ian. It's no wonder you've made such a stunning career for yourself with that level of intellectual prowess." He turned to leave.

"Don't need intellect to put a bullet in someone's brain, Sherly," Ian said. "You'd best remember that."

Sherlock stalked back to the house. He had a pretty good idea at what angle the blood would spurt from Ian's nose if he were to break it, but he couldn't risk his life testing that hypothesis.

He was surprised by his reaction. He'd engaged in that kind of banter before, on cases, and while he had found it distasteful, he wasn't personally affected.

But it had never been about a woman he actually knew. This had nothing to do with his ego or bashfulness and everything to do with the way they were talking about Molly as if she were an object.

He shouldn't care. She'd treated him like a trophy.

He sat on the stoop and lit a cigarette, staring down the lane to the horizon.


	22. Chapter 22

The hum of a car engine slowly pierced Sherlock's consciousness as he paced in front of the fireplace the following morning. He peeked out the window and could just make out the little blue car coming up the lane. As it pulled up to the house, he lay on the sofa and composed himself into his usual thinking position. She came in, walked over to him and dropped her bag.

"Don't bother, boffin. I called ahead and the boys already told me you've been frantic."

Dammit. Wasn't there some sort of man code that dictated behavior in these instances? He opened one eye. She was wearing the same skirt as when she'd left, but with what looked to be a new jumper of the kind of quality cashmere one doesn't find in the average Irish village.

"I was concerned, but my reaction was far from frantic," he said, closing his eye again.

"Oh? The boys offered to let me watch some of the video. Lots of pacing and cursing, tossing and turning, they said."

"I was bored."

"Well, come on. I know you're dying to ask, so ask," she said.

"You're dying to tell me so why don't you tell me?"

"There's nothing much to tell. I fancied a trip to Dublin and I took it. It's not London but I missed the city."

He sat up.

"You." He took a deep breath and exhaled. "You disappeared for two days because you needed a holiday. From your country holiday."

"Yes. I got a room at the Four Seasons, watched a ton of crap telly and ate room service beef Wellington and a lobster tail and a full bottle of wine before passing out on an absolutely luxurious bed. Did some shopping yesterday and repeated it all again last night except with a petit filet and a shrimp cocktail. You're not the only one who likes to have fun on big brother's dime every once in a while. Come help me with the bags."

She was lying. Well, not exactly lying, but definitely omitting. He went with her to the car. The back seat was full of carrier bags. She started filling his arms.

"Just like that, on a whim, you decided to pop off to Dublin."

"Yes."

"And all you did was shop?"

"Yes."

"Were you trying to make me miss you?"

"No," she said.

She hooked the last few bags on her arms and shut the car door with her foot.

"Did you?" she asked.

"No."

"So all that pacing and pouting was just anger and boredom?"

"Exactly."

When they got to her room, she laughed when she saw her door ajar.

"You know, I taught you how to bake. You're going to have to teach me how to pick locks. It only seems fair. I take it you didn't find anything interesting?"

"Not even an old diary."

She deposited her load of bags on the floor by her desk and gestured for him to do the same.

"I'll sort those later. I'm starving."

She ran her fingers down his arm as she passed him. It was a casual gesture, devoid of the self-consciousness she'd exhibited lately. He caught her hand and she pulled him along after her, down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Molly stared into the refrigerator, making her mind up about what to eat. He noted the way her jumper skimmed her body, revealing her shape without being too tight. The sleeves were too long, covering a good deal of her hands. It would be nice to run his hands over it, to feel the softness of the wool between his hands and her curves.

He was strangely okay with how much he wanted that.

She looked at him and caught him staring. She smiled and looked back at the fridge, getting out a carton of strawberries. He continued to stare at her, unabashedly, as she washed and hulled the berries and put them in a bowl.

He rested against the worktop. She came over and pressed herself against him, offering him a strawberry. Instead of letting her feed it to him, he took it from her and popped it in his mouth. She moved to pull away, but he caught her around the waist with one arm.

"Where else did you go?" he said.

"What makes you think I went anywhere else?"

He picked a strawberry from the bowl with his free hand and held it to her lips. She took it, sucking on his fingertips the tiniest bit before he pulled his hand away. "Because you never said what you did when you first arrived in Dublin. Just what you did that night. You left at eight in the morning, and there is no place in this country that is more than four hours from Dublin. It's most likely we're somewhere in County Kildare. Even at its southernmost point we'd only be a little more than an hour from the city." He used his thumb to wipe a tiny bit of juice from the corner of her mouth.

"You're right," she said, "But I also never said what time I checked in, did I?" She removed herself from his embrace and took the strawberries with her to the sitting room. She flopped in her chair, legs dangling over one arm, and kicked her shoes off. She seemed thoroughly amused, and the edges of her energy that had softened over their time together were sharpened again.

"You're saying you checked in immediately upon arriving in the city and didn't leave until the next day."

"No, I'm not. And I'm not saying I didn't. I'm just saying that you can't know which from the information I gave you. And I don't know why it even matters."

"If you're planning anything—"

"I'm not. I didn't see my brother, or anyone else I know. I don't have any idea what my next move is. I'm sorry I couldn't take you with me but it's just logistically impossible." She stood up and faced him, offering him a strawberry. "Let's consider the subject closed."

Sherlock took her by the wrist and pulled her against him so quickly that she gasped. Again, he took the berry from her and ate it in one bite.

"What are you going to do?" she said as he ran one hand up her back and into her hair, gripping it firmly at the nape. "You going to try to seduce it out of me, same way you did for body parts?"

"No," he said. "But I am going to fuck that self-satisfied look off your face."

She opened her mouth to reply and he kissed her. He hadn't kissed her at all when they had sex, and she hadn't pushed him. He had heard people say that kissing on the mouth could feel more intimate than intercourse, but he hadn't understood it until she had taken him, and it had been the one barrier stopping her from consuming him completely.

He didn't know what had shifted, just that he wanted to see if her mouth tasted like strawberries.

It did. And as she wound her hands into his hair, something else inside him shifted and one word echoed in his head. Now.

He lowered her to the floor and rucked her skirt up around her waist. She sat up, undid his jeans, and slipped his cock out of his pants. He pushed her back to the ground. He didn't pull off her knickers, but moved them aside and plunged into her all at once. She wasn't quite ready and she cried out, but he fucked her hard. He fucked her harder with every moan. She tried to take his jumper off, but he yanked her hands away and pinned them under his.

"Is this what you fucking wanted?" he said.

"Yes," she said, defiantly, as she started to move with him.

Molly wrapped both legs around him. Her breathing became faster and her moans dissolved into whimpers. Just as he felt her body start to stiffen, he pulled out and flipped her over. She growled in frustration. Sherlock grabbed her by the hips and yanked her to her knees. With one hand he pulled down her knickers while he wound her hair around his other hand, holding on at her nape. Then he plunged into her again, over and over. And the harder he fucked her, the harder she reared back against him. She supported herself on one arm and stroked herself with the other hand. She let out a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a scream as she came, her muscles rippling around him giving him the final push over the edge. He let go of her hair and put both hands on her waist, pulling her against him for one final thrust as he pulsed inside her with a strangled cry.

Molly's arm was giving out, causing her to almost fall forward, but he caught her and gently lowered her to the floor before lying down beside her. It was entirely too hot, so he pulled his jumper off and threw it on the chair. They lay in silence long after their breathing had quieted. She examined the carpet burn on her knees and her left hand, then removed her own jumper. He wanted a cigarette, but they were across the room, and his muscles felt like they were made of jelly.

She tried to get up but he put his arms around her waist and pulled her to the floor again. He pulled her camisole over her head and began covering her body in kisses. He reached down and stroked her still swollen clit, her folds slick with her own arousal and his ejaculate. She said his name and he kissed her to quiet her. She moaned into his mouth as he worked her relentlessly.

"Sherlock," she said again. "Can we go upstairs? My room?"

"Yes," he said, and stood, offering his hand to her. He helped her up and had her in his arms again, kissing her desperately as they stumbled upstairs, shedding clothes as they went. She pushed him onto his back on the bed and straddled him. He grabbed her hips to guide her onto his cock, but she pushed them away. She leaned over to kiss him, sucking hard on his bottom lip, her hands roaming his chest and arms. Then she smiled and reversed her position, sinking onto him with her lovely arse and back in full view. The change in sensation was incredible. As she rode him, he caressed her arse, which was a beautiful fit for his hands. As she slid up and down, he could see his semen from before all over his cock, and while it should have seemed messy, it only turned him on more. It was a way of marking his territory. He wanted to fill her to the brim.

It took them longer to orgasm the second time, though it was more intense. After, they lay, spent, with only a sheet covering them. Molly got a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her nightstand, and told him he could smoke one in her room, because everyone should experience a post coital cigarette in their lives.

"So," she said. "What brought about the change of heart?"

He took several drags before he answered. "It wasn't a change of heart; it was a change of perspective."


	23. Chapter 23

The crestfallen look on Molly's face made Sherlock realize he might need to elaborate. He took a last pull from his cigarette and stubbed it out in a mug on the bedside table. When she had settled again with her head on his chest, he continued.

"This situation is—impossible, and I can only imagine that it would become even more so if you were to let me go. However it's pointless to keep banging my head against a wall by continuing to antagonize you. Plus, this feels nice, and it helps me disconnect, and it's nothing at all like I thought it would be which makes me curious to learn more. I know that's not what you want to hear, but it's the truth as I know it."

"It's probably more than I deserve."

He brushed her hair away from her face.

"Did I do this?" he asked, touching a circular red mark on her temple with his thumb.

"I don't know, I can't see it, can I?"

"Just a mark on your skin.I was a bit—aggressive, wasn't I?"

"Well, you've got more than one on you," she said, touching his neck. "You know, my mum always said that love bites were trashy."

"How was your mum's sex life?"

Molly cringed and pinched his nipple. "That's the last thing I want to think about now—but I imagine it was horrible."

"Well, my mother is quite the arbiter of taste, but she never communicated to me her opinion on love bites, so I can't be much help in that regard. They are quite fun to give, though, which probably indicates that they're questionable at best."

She looked sad again. She walked her first two fingers up his chest, then traced a circle around his nipple with her forefinger.

"I'm sorry," she said. "For getting you into this."

He put his hand over hers.

"I got myself into this," he said softly. Her eyes widened and she kissed him, on his temple, his cheekbone, and finally his mouth.

"Let's not talk anymore, okay?" she said.

"Okay."

The not talking thing didn't last long, since it was necessary to talk when she told him how she liked to be touched. He found, quite on his own, that she liked things to be whispered low, right in her ear, the filthier the better.

When he asked her if she liked how it sounded when he fucked her, she dug her nails into his back and moaned her assent. And that was the tipping point.

"Molly, I can't—"

"It's alright," she said. She dug her heels into the mattress and lifted her pelvis to brace herself against him and he came so hard that he couldn't see. When his senses were mostly recovered, he sat back against the headboard, watching her recover. He wasn't sure when they had ended up with their heads at the foot of the bed.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"You didn't—finish."

"Oh. That happens sometimes. You'll make it up to me later." She sat up, facing him. "Right now, I think we both need to hydrate. And probably eat something other than biscuits or fruit."

"Yes, Doctor."

The soreness in his body was remarkably pleasant, like what he experienced after a long swim or a foot chase. He retrieved his pants from the landing and put them on before going downstairs. She was already in the sitting room and had thrown on his jumper. It was long on her, but still short enough that it provided tantalizing peeks at her bum as she walked down the hall. She stopped at the bathroom, saying she needed to clean up a bit.

When she emerged, she put her hair up and rolled up her sleeves before scrubbing her hands as if preparing for an autopsy.

"I started a bath," she said. "Pasta? Yes. Carbohydrates."

"Why are we bathing if we're just going to get messy again later?"

"You know how I said you'd make it up to me?"

"Yes."

"Well, I plan on teaching you some new skills later, and I assume you won't be too keen on it after coming inside me three times."

He shrugged. It wasn't the most appealing idea, but he was sure that if the situation arose he wouldn't have turned it down. The idea of bathing with her under more amicable circumstances than before was quite appealing, however.

Once they were in the tub together, their half-eaten plates of pasta cooling on the dining room table, he focused on the heat of the water, and her back against his chest, and the feeling of her wet hands entwined with his. He also quite enjoyed when she turned around and let him soap her body (her breasts were especially fun) but she pulled away when he tried to guide himself into her.

"Foreplay is fine, but sex in the water isn't as fun as you might imagine. The water tends to wash away all the natural lubricant."

"Of course. Stupid," he muttered.

"Also, there is really is something wicked about getting dirty again right after you've gotten clean."

When they got out, they didn't make it back upstairs. The sofa served as his classroom as he learned to please her with his tongue and lips and fingers. She sat on the sofa, legs thrown over his shoulders, He didn't need a lot of instruction once she explained the basic premise, and she was soon incapable of coherent speech anyway. He looked up at her face as she lost control, her hands gripping the back of the sofa as she bucked against him. He remembered being at the mercy of her tongue and lips and hands. He smiled and moved his tongue faster, until he felt her pulsing under his tongue and around his fingers.

He released the hold he had on her thighs and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth. She leaned forward and kissed him.

"That was fucking fantastic," she said. She lay back on the sofa and he settled on top of her, head resting on her chest as she stroked his hair. They fell asleep, only to wake up well after dark and find each other again.

After that night, Sherlock stopped keeping as close a watch on time as he had, the days drifting one into another with no real scheme much as they did when he was at the height of his heroin habit. The only thing that mattered were the most basic of needs and the pursuit of sensation, until every curve and freckle and fold of her body was committed to memory.

And then one day, his twenty second day in this farmhouse, he woke up in the early afternoon. He left her sleeping and went downstairs to smoke. When he returned, she was sitting up in bed, her eyes still sleepy and her hair falling in a lovely cloud around her shoulders.

She looked startled when she saw him.

"Sherlock, where are we?"


	24. Chapter 24

For half a second, Sherlock entertained the idea that he might still be asleep and dreaming. This had happened too many times before, however, to not be absolutely real.

Though it had never been this extreme. It wasn't a just a slightly befuddled Maggie Moriarty sitting in that bed looking at him with the slow realization that she was naked and sore. It was Molly Hooper.

Then she squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head, and Maggie was back.

"What's wrong?" she said. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Are you sick?"

"What's wrong with _me_?" he said, sitting beside her on the bed. "What happened just now?" He put his hand on her cheek and looked in her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Just now, you weren't—you. You were Molly. Fake Molly. But you weren't faking. You didn't seem to know where you were."

"Don't be ridiculous Sherlock."

He started to answer, but she suddenly put her hands over her ears and screamed.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!"

"Molly," he said, reaching for her. She jerked away, still shrieking.

"No, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up. Make it fucking stop!"

A wild look came upon her and she jumped up and ran over to her desk. She opened the drawer (he hadn't been able to lock it after he'd searched it) and stared at it in horror. She rummaged through it, then yanked it out of the desk and turned it upside down.

"Where is it?"

"What, Molly?" But he knew. He remembered hearing her open and shut that drawer the night he had woken up in the chair by the fire. He'd assumed that was where she kept the gun. She hadn't used it since, and he knew there was no use in his getting it, so he hadn't thought about it after that. It hadn't been in the drawer when he searched her room, so he'd assumed she'd found a better hiding place."

"My fucking gun."

"Molly, I don't have your gun. It would be useless to me."

"Yes, but you still wouldn't want me to have it, either."

"Why do you want it now?"

"Because I want it to stop. I can't do this anymore I just want it to stop."

"You want what to stop."

"Can't you fucking hear it?"

Her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.

"That bastard."

"Who?"

"Jim. Jim fucking took it. He took it while he was in here yelling at me. He must have done. While I was crying and had my back to him."

"Why would he take your weapon?"

"I don't know I don't know I don't know," she said and launched herself into him, throwing her arms around his waist. He put his arms around her as she sobbed.

"What's going on, Sherlock. I don't understand. It's all muddled."

"I don't know, Molly. This isn't the first time it's happened, though and—oh."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just, er, perhaps it's just hormonal. Have you taken your pill today?"

"Oh, no! Shit what time is it?"

"It's past noon. Why don't you take it now, and come downstairs. I'll make some tea and you'll feel better soon."

"Okay,"she said. She took the pill and he walked with her down the stairs. He didn't feel safe leaving her alone, so he had her sit at the kitchen table while he made tea. He did everything he could to appear calm, but his hands shook as he poured the water over the tea bags. Everything he'd shoved to the background all came hurtling into his mind, finally fitting together into something that made sense, even though it was horrifying.

It couldn't be. Could it? He went over the evidence. Molly Hooper had shown absolutely no signs of being someone she wasn't in the entire five years he had known her. The only noticeable change in behavior had taken place after Jim from IT came into her life.

She had been on three dates with Jim Moriarty, and he had been in her flat during that period. Molly was on the pill. Jim would have had access to her pills and could have replaced them. The drug that Molly had given Sherlock would not be the only substance that Moriarty's people would be working on.

Suppose he replaced her pills with a drug that made her open to hypnotic suggestion. Suppose that over the course of the past year he had programmed all the information needed to become Maggie Moriarty. Suppose the drug was metabolized quickly enough that it had to be taken every day.

Molly's periods of confusion always occurred in the morning. The first one had been on the first day she was to take her placebo pill. If she had decided to skip it, and the effects had worn off, she would have started to regain her own consciousness again (presuming that she had to be under the influence of the drug in order for the suggestions to work.) Suppose other mornings, she was just forgetful or got distracted.

This morning she had gone longer without taking it than she had before, and had experienced an almost complete break from being Maggie. She had also become suicidal when pressed about it. Could he have programmed her to self-destruct if cornered or captured?

All of it was improbable, but was it any more improbable than the possibility that she had successfully deceived him for five years?

He set her tea in front of her and she smiled at him. Her agitation was already subsiding, indicating that the drug was fast acting.

"Fuck," he said. Before she asked what the matter was, he said mumbled something about spilling tea on his hand. But he had just stumbled upon a conclusion that made his stomach heave. He leaned against the work top, back to her, taking deep breaths.

If Moriarty had tampered with her pills, was the drug in question in _addition_ to, or _instead _of the actual birth control?

If the pills didn't contain any birth control at all, it would take a miracle for him to have avoided impregnating her. He rifled through his mind until he found the pertinent information on the female cycle. She would have come back from Dublin at the peak of her fertility.

And she'd said that the pills didn't work to relieve her cramping.

He quickly turned to the other options, because the implications of this one were too horrifying.

If it was in addition to, how could he get her to stop taking it without running the risk of her wanting to have sex again before the effects fully wore off? Not only could he not have sex with her again because of the risk of pregnancy if she went off the pills, but because if she were drugged and brainwashed, she wasn't able to consent.

He put his face in his hands. This option really wasn't any less horrifying than the first. Of course she was drugged. That was pure Moriarty. To make them both unwitting rapists. He hoped fervently that his depravity didn't run deep enough to manipulate them into conceiving a child.

He turned to face her.

"Sherlock," she said. "I really think you must be coming down with something. You look awful."

"Molly, I need to speak with your brother."


	25. Chapter 25

Molly had taken him at his word when he said he wanted to try negotiating with Moriarty. It wasn't a complete lie, but he was more interested in answers. She went to the barn to get in touch with him, and Sherlock went into the bathroom, shut the door, and sank to the floor, his entire body shaking. He stifled his sobs with his hands as best he could, but finally resorted to turning both faucets on to drown out the noise.

For perhaps the third time in his life, he admitted to himself how much he needed his brother to swoop in and fix things. He was still sitting on the floor, the room full of steam, when Molly knocked on the door.

"He said he was already planning on coming, but he's in Moscow so it'll be late tonight."

He willed his voice not to crack. "Thank you."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just taking a bath."

"Want me to join you."

"No!" he said, a bit too vehemently. "I mean, I just need to think, make a game plan."

"All right. Let me know if you change your mind."

"Okay."

He spent an hour in the bathtub, then shaved. His hair was getting too long, but there was nothing to be done about that so he combed it back from his face. As he put on clean clothes, he wished he had a suit. He felt like he was going into battle without his armor.

Molly curled up with him on the sofa, her head in his lap as he read aloud from a biography of Marie Curie. She was dozing when the window lit up with approaching headlights.

Moriarty walked in without knocking, sporting an enormous grin and yet another new suit.

"Hello, dears. Sherlock, I'll be with you in just a moment. Maggie, a word with you upstairs?"

"But Jim, I—"

"Now."

She scurried up the stairs. Moriarty pointed at Sherlock and told him not to move. He came down five minutes later and sat in Molly's chair. Sherlock moved to his chair.

"If you're wondering, she's sleeping. She'll be out quite a while, so no worries about eavesdropping."

"What did you do to her?"

"Nothing physical, Sherlock. I wouldn't want to damage anything. Come on, now. You've got it mostly figured out, use that noggin of yours for more than figuring out new sex positions."

"You've used a trigger to make her sleep."

"Bingo."

"Is she really your sister?"

"Of course not. I mean, I did have a sister named Maggie, and that was her room. But she's been dead as long as my parents have. Carbon monoxide. Tragic. Moving on."

"What are you using to control her?"

"Combination of a hypnotic drug and trauma based mind control. We had to be non-invasive with the trauma, of course. No cutting or burning or beating. But she was still tougher than any other subject we've had to be gentle with. We had quite the celebration when we finally got her to dissociate."

"Her trigger is a fairytale, I presume?"

"I love it when you're clever, Sherlock."

"Is the drug necessary for an alternate identity to manifest?"

"In her case, yes. Like I said, she's a tough one. Aren't you going to compliment me on getting her to drug herself? No? Well, why don't you ask the really important question? I can practically feel it; it's weighing on your mind so heavily."

"Did you completely replace her birth control with the drug?"

"I think you already know the answer to that, deep down, don't you?"

"Why?"

"Because I have a notion to start a family, and no ordinary brat will do."

"What's the real reason?"

"It's absolutely true. But you're right, that's not all. I obviously could have made one with Molly myself, or chosen a surrogate. Do you remember when I told you I would burn the heart out of you?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't talking about your friends."

"You think I would feel more for a baby I was forced to conceive than I would for the friends I've chosen?"

"Sherlock, I don't think. I know. Of course, you could prove you're really heartless. I'll let you walk out of here as soon as the test comes back positive, as long as you leave her here. She'll be unharmed; your friends will be unharmed. I'll just take the baby when it's born. You never even have to think about it. I can even make her forget the whole thing ever happened."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. "No."

"Touching. I'm going to take the baby anyway, you know."

"Yes, which is why it wasn't much of a choice, was it?"

"Do you have any more questions? I do need to get back to Moscow. There's a coup in the works and I don't want to miss it."

"Why was she in Dublin?"

"Just a checkup, to make sure all the pipes were working, that she was healthy enough to carry. I only planned on keeping her a day but then I decided to re calibrate her programming a little. Seems that even evil little Maggie had developed too much of a soft spot for you and was in danger of letting that egg go to waste because of some latent sense of chivalry. Apparently her disregard for her own needs in favor of yours is programmed into her DNA. But it was nothing a little shock therapy and some good old fashioned terror couldn't fix."

Sherlock remembered the odd mark on her temple. He had dismissed it as a love bite and had been subsequently very distracted. Stupid. It was a mild burn from electric shock. She hadn't had one on her other temple, but he still should have recognized it for what it was. Of course, it was already too late by the time he noticed it.

"What happens when she wakes up?"

"I told her to wake up tomorrow evening at six. The drug should be mostly out of her system by then, and I'm taking the rest with me. As much as I'd love to watch you struggle through a moral dilemma, we obviously haven't tested the drug's effect on a fetus and I'd rather not take chances. It's going to fun watching you explain everything to her."

"Is there a self-destruct program in there as well?"

"Yes. You got a little taste of that, I hear. I thought it might glitch, which is why I got rid of her gun. It's really supposed to only work if your brother ever managed to find you."

"She kept saying 'shut up'."

"That's because it's literally a voice in her head screaming at her to kill herself. But obviously I don't want that to happen, at least not yet. She really is a great little brood mare. Healthy, intelligent, somewhat attractive."

"What if she's not pregnant?"

"I'll just make you try again. That will be fun, won't it? Molly and Sherlock, together again for the first time! Or, I could just turn Maggie on again for you. She'll still be in there, just waiting for the drugs and the trigger. Molly might not be your cup of tea. She was a little tepid for my tastes."

"Molly told me after the pool that she never slept with you."

"She would say that, wouldn't she? God Sherlock you're so dense sometimes. She didn't want you to know because she thought you'd be cruel about it. And you would have been."

"Perhaps she wasn't the one responsible for things being 'tepid.'"

"Isn't that sweet? Be careful, Sherlock, I may let you test that hypothesis. But anyway, I do hope that it took this time because adding a month to this will try my patience. Forty weeks seems entirely too long a time just to make one little human. And then you don't know their real personalities for years. I just hope the child doesn't turn out as ordinary as its father."

"Ordinary?"

"Yes, Sherlock. So disappointing. It took you less time than I thought it would to succumb to your libido. You can rationalize it any way you want, but you're just like any other man. But I suppose you'll always be addicted to something. Maybe her cunt was just a substitute for the cases, which were a substitute for the needle, which was a substitute for probably something extremely Oedipal. It's all so predictable, really."

"What will you do if it does turn out to be 'ordinary.'"

"I think I'll give it back to you. In exchange for another one, of course. Like returning a defective pair of shoes. Then it can spend its life disappointing you instead of me."

Moriarty got up and went to the door. Before he left, he took a small package from his coat pocket. It was wrapped in pale green paper with rubber ducks on it.

He set it on the table and was out the door.

Sherlock sat in silence long after the car had disappeared down the lane. Finally, he picked up the small box and tore off the paper. The package contained two pregnancy tests.


	26. Chapter 26

When he was three years old, Sherlock had become aware for the first time that his brother would be leaving for school. He had sulked and cried and told everyone that there was no need for Mycroft to go back to school, because he already knew everything. Everyone but Mycroft had either patted his head and tried to give him sweets, or had told him to stop being a bother and go play outside. Even though he could read and write, and speak more clearly than many adults he knew, the fact that he was less than three feet tall meant that he was dismissed the way any other three year old would be.

Mycroft had taken him aside and told him that it would be Christmas before they knew it, and that he might even be home for a few weekends before then. He promised to write him.

Sherlock wasn't having any of that. The evening before Mycroft was to leave, he waited until he was put to bed, then packed his small knapsack and snuck out of the house. He had planned to camp out in the ruins of a hunting lodge that Mycroft had shown him in the woods. However, he had gotten lost, and learned the very important lesson that a compass is only useful if you actually know which direction you need to go.

He only had to spend one night crying under a tree. He was found late the next afternoon.

As it turned out, Mycroft had been sent off on the train that morning as planned, because everyone assumed that Sherlock was off sulking in the attic as usual. To top it off, Sherlock was punished for worrying his mother and for keeping people from their work while they looked for him. And he hadn't even gotten to say goodbye to his brother.

As Sherlock sat by the fire contemplating the box in his hand, he remembered how sure he had been of his plan, even though, at best, it would only have delayed the inevitable by a day or two.

Mycroft and he had been so sure about Moriarty's goal, and how they would stop him. And he had blithely followed his compass north while Moriarty was wreaking havoc in the opposite direction. Everything—the kidnapping, Kitty Riley's article, destroying his reputation—had been in service of this plan, instead of being the goal. It was all meant to make him desperate enough to go to Molly for help and to leverage against him should he consider escape. It was all because one sweet little pathologist had been largely beneath his notice.

But that wasn't quite true, was it? The truth was that he noticed so much about her that it frightened him, and he had reacted with constant rejection to prove he didn't care. He wasn't sure what he was more frightened of, the fact that he paid so much attention to her, or that she seemed to see so much of him.

No matter, he had failed her utterly. If he had treated her with more regard, if he had let himself really see her, Moriarty would not have had the perfect vessel with which to execute his scheme.

He went to her room and was confronted again with just what a sick bastard Moriarty was. He had arranged her on the bed like a corpse, on her back with her legs together, arms at her sides, her hair fanned out gently on her pillow. He'd had her change into a pink nightgown. The soft rise and fall of her chest was the only indication she was alive.

Sherlock picked her up and carried her to his room, laying her temporarily in his bed so that he could strip the bedding from hers. He hadn't slept in that bed in days; the room looked cold and bare. He would have to get used to its austerity again. He changed the sheets and pillow cases on Molly's bed and found an old quilt to put on it while her duvet was being washed. The smell of sex and sweat was still slightly detectable on the pillows, even with the new cases, but at least she wouldn't be inundated with it when she woke up. He carried her back to the bed, laying her on her side, and covered her with the quilt. He then set about dealing with the bags she'd brought back from Dublin. She had never gotten around to sorting them and Sherlock had a feeling that she had been instructed not to deal with them.

His suspicions were confirmed when he began unpacking them. It was an entire wardrobe of maternity clothes. It was all of beautiful quality, even the yoga bottoms and nightgowns. Had she chosen it all as Maggie, then had those memories deleted, or had someone else done the shopping?

He put it all away, organized in the closet and bureau according to size, then color. The clothes were the last thing he wanted her to be confronted with when she woke up. The reality of them was almost too much for him to face. He looked at her and tried to picture her with a swollen belly. She was so small. How in the world would there ever be room?

It occurred to him how likely it was that there was an embryo in her womb. It might not even be implanted yet, but it could be there. Cells dividing exponentially, like a tumor. And he would have to tell her. He couldn't leave any of it out. Funny that not long ago it wouldn't have occurred to him to want to leave anything out, because he believed so surely that the truth was more important than sparing anyone's feelings. That lying only led to greater pain.

He recalled all the ways in which he had violated her body in the past week. He cursed himself for still being able to derive pleasure from those memories. He went back to his room, lifted the mattress, and removed the straps that held the restraints. He threw the whole thing under the bed.

Back in her room, he took a good look around and decided that it might not be best for her to wake up in what was essentially a shrine to a dead girl. He carried her downstairs and laid her on the sofa.

He sat in her chair, which was closest to the sofa, and went into his mind. He went through everything since he had gone to her for help, and filtered out only what was essential to tell her. The details of all their sexual encounters were shoved into a closet. He couldn't delete them just yet, but he had to isolate them so he could reclaim some objectivity. Dawn was just breaking when he finished. Twelve hours left. He tried to occupy himself with mundane tasks, not wanting to get too deeply involved with anything. He did the laundry and hung it outside. He scrubbed the kitchen and even the bathroom. But he kept finding himself back in the sitting room, staring at her sleeping form. He repositioned her every few hours to prevent any pressure sores. As far as he could tell, she never entered REM sleep, even though she was out for almost twenty hours.

At six, he was again sat in her chair. She opened her eyes just as the mantel clock was chiming. At first she stretched, just as though she were waking from a nap. Her brow wrinkled when she didn't recognize the ceiling. She sat up and looked around, taking in the room, the fire, and Sherlock. Again she startled when she saw him, her mouth gaping. At least she was somewhat dressed this time, and not covered in his bodily fluids.

"Sherlock? What's going on? Where are we?"

"Molly, what's the last thing you remember?"

"Sherlock—"

"I'll tell you everything, but I need to know where to begin."

She looked skeptical, but she closed her eyes and concentrated.

"When you came to me, in the lab and asked for my help. You were explaining what Jim Moriarty had done, and what you needed me to do. But I only remember the first part."

"Do you have any periods of lost time earlier that day?"

Her eyes moved back and forth as she reviewed her day. "After you and John left the lab to go to Scotland Yard, I was cleaning up. My phone rang. And then the next thing I remember, I was sitting in my office."

"He must have programmed a trigger, something he knew I'd say when I talked to you again," he muttered.

"Who? Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

He looked at her a long while before he could speak. She was so beautiful in the firelight, and still unscathed. She was confused and nervous, but she still trusted him and-this was the most damning—she was concerned for _his_ wellbeing.

So he told her. Everything that had happened from when he left Bart's for Scotland Yard until his conversation with Moriarty the night before.

As he talked, her eyes got bigger, but physically, she seemed to get smaller and smaller. She hugged her knees and started rocking slightly. When he got to the end, she didn't say anything.

"Molly."

"Stop it right now," she said.

"What?"

"If this is—some kind of experiment, like you pulled on John in Dartmoor, I swear to God, Sherlock, I will never forgive you."

"Molly, I wish I could say it was an experiment."

She looked at him. Her eyes devastated him.

"What did I ever do to anyone to deserve you in my life?"

He got up and went to her, kneeling in front of her, but she recoiled into the corner of the sofa.

"Don't touch me."

"Molly, please."

"No," she said, as tears started to spill. "God, why do you always have to show off? Why do you have to act like you're so above everything, like you don't care? He'd never have noticed you otherwise, or else he wouldn't be so hell bent on breaking you down and taking everyone else down with you. He'd have just put a bullet in you the first time you irritated him."

Her thoughts mirrored his earlier ones so thoroughly that he wondered if this was how other people felt when he appeared to read their minds. He sat back on his heels.

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Don't. Not ever again. Those words are so pointless—I just—Just don't." She took a deep breath and raked her hair back from her face. She was trembling, biting on her thumbnail and rocking again. He wanted to hold her, but obviously that was wrong. What would John do in this situation?

John would never have gotten himself into this situation.

"Molly," he tried again. "I need to know what you'd like me to do."

She shook her head again. "There's nothing. You lost, Sherlock. You can't help me any more than you can help yourself. Just leave me alone."


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock Holmes was not inclined to play Mozart often. This was not a commentary on the man's work, as Mozart's compositions were flawless. Rather, it was a reflection of Sherlock's temperament. He simply did not like how Mozart made him feel. There was joy in it that made him feel fraudulent.

Of course it would follow that Molly Hooper loved Mozart.

It wasn't a serenade. He wasn't trying to get her to come out of her room, even though she had only left it out of necessity for the last five days. Even though she wouldn't look at him when she did come out. Even though he could hear her crying at night.

He played Mozart, the violin concertos mostly, hoping the music might give her some small measure of comfort, and because it broke the deadly silence that had settled over the house.

He missed her. He missed the woman who had never really existed and the woman who had selflessly offered to help him. The latter was as irrevocably lost to him as the former.

He was awash in shame and guilt over not having figured out sooner that she had been drugged and brainwashed.

Even more shameful were the dreams. Molly coming to him in the lab, his taking her on one of the lab benches, buried inside her again, forgetting everything as she whispered in his ear that she loved him.

Or the one where he found her in the morgue, cold in a drawer but still breathing and he took her while she slept.

He'd stopped sleeping. Not that he was doing much of it anyway.

There were four days left before she would take the pregnancy test. Technically, the tests that Moriarty had provided could be used five days early, but she said she wanted to wait so they would get a more accurate result. That was the last thing she said to him.

He wasn't sure yet which result would be worse. There might be a slim chance of convincing Moriarty to release them if she weren't pregnant, but it was highly improbable. Whatever methods of coercion he would use to get them to have sex again, Sherlock was certain that it would be Molly's breaking point.

It might also be his.

He paused before beginning another piece, and spied Padraic coming up the lane with a box of groceries. He opened the door as he came up the front walk.

"Afternoon, Sherly, how's things?"

"How much did you know?" Sherlock asked.

"Now, Sherly, that's rude isn't it? Can't even say hello? And you know I can't answer that."

Sherlock motioned for him to set the box in a chair. Padraic picked up the violin and admired it.

"Well, she's a beauty. D'ya mind?" He held his hand out for the bow. Sherlock handed it over and Padraic played a quick jig and reel, foot stomping and fingers flying. His blonde hair flopped into his face. He laughed hugely when he finished and handed the violin back to Sherlock, who put it in its case.

"Bet she's never been played like that before—oh, hey there Mags. Or Molly I should say."

Sherlock looked up. Molly was standing at the foot of the stairs. He hadn't seen her all day, and he was dismayed at her appearance. She hadn't brushed her hair or changed her clothes in three days.

"Who's this?" she asked.

"This is Padraic. He works for Moriarty."

"Call me Paddy," the blonde man said, holding out his hand.

She met Padraic's eyes. "Did you know what was being done to me?"

He had the temerity to smile at her. "I can't say one way or the other, Mols."

Sherlock barely managed to grab her around the waist as she launched herself at Padraic. She struggled wildly, elbowing him and kicking until he was able to subdue her, holding her from behind with her arms pinned to her sides.

"Molly, don't, he's armed," he said.

"He won't hurt me," she spat. "I'm too valuable to his boss."

Padraic smiled at her, amused. "You're right, Mols. But there's nothing to stop one of my colleagues from paying a visit to your mam, is there?"

She screamed and made another attempt to free herself from Sherlock's grip, arching back to head butt him. He narrowly dodged it and yelled at Padraic to leave. The shorter man sauntered out, whistling the jig he'd just played.

Sherlock didn't loosen his hold on Molly until the other man was out of sight. As soon as he did, she turned her rage onto him. She spun around and struck out wildly, connecting with his jaw. She followed with a punch to his chest before he grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her against his chest.

"Let me go you fucking bastard."

"I will but you have to stop hitting me, Molly. Please. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

She stopped struggling and he slowly let go of her wrists. As she lowered her arms, the tension left her body as quickly as if a switch had been flipped. Her face crumpled and she slumped against him, crying into his chest. Her shoulders heaved with her sobs, and he tentatively rubbed her back with one hand. When she didn't object, the put his other arm around her. He stroked her hair, which was rough with snarls.

He picked her up and carried her to the sofa. He sat down, holding her in his lap until her sobs subsided. He examined the bruises that were forming on her wrists and knuckles. There would be more from where he had held her and she had struggled.

He eased her off his lap. She lay on the couch in the fetal position. The soles of her feet and the hem of her pyjama bottoms were brown with dirt and her t shirt was dingy.

"Molly, I think you might feel better, at least physically, if you took a bath and changed clothes."

"You're probably right," she said, not moving.

"Shall I start one for you?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Right, then. I'll be right back."

She was sitting up when he came back into the sitting room, attempting to comb the snarls out of the hair with her fingers. He handed her the hairbrush he'd grabbed from the lavatory. She thanked him and began working through her hair methodically, starting at the end of small sections and working her way up. When she finished, she ventured to the bathroom and turned off the tap. She sat on the edge, testing the water.

"I'm not going to do anything stupid," she said. "You don't have to hover."

"I wasn't—"

"You were. But I'll be fine. I'll leave the door open, though."

"Okay."

She went directly to her room when she was finished bathing, stopping only to tell him that she did feel somewhat better.

"Molly, I—"

"I can't," she said, her eyes profoundly sad. "Not yet."

She climbed the stairs, and when he heard the click of her door shutting, he picked up the violin. More Mozart. Adagio and Fugue for Strings. G Minor.


	28. Chapter 28

On the day her period was due, Molly had not come down stairs by noon, so Sherlock knocked on her door. She had been venturing out more the last few days, even engaging in conversation with him, though she sometimes trailed off mid-sentence, staring off in the distance, or became weepy even if what they were discussing was mundane.

She told him to come in. She was still in bed with the duvet pulled over her head.

"What do you want?"

"When will you be coming down?"

"I haven't technically missed it until tomorrow, you know."

"Molly."

"I keep telling myself it's just stress. I've been a day or two late before when I'm stressed. And my boobs are sore but that really doesn't mean anything. That's so fucking frustrating, that the symptoms of early pregnancy are so similar to PMS symptoms. "

"Molly, you can take it today, so take it. Get it over with. It's illogical to wait any more. It will tell you if you aren't pregnant with as much accuracy as it will tell you that you are. Why wait around?"

She pulled the cover away from her face.

"Because I'd like to pretend for at least a bit longer that it matters one way or the other."

He held out his hand. "Come on. You must be dying to take a piss by now."

She ignored his hand, but got out of bed anyway.

"Where is it?" she asked.

"In the cupboard above the toilet."

"Right." She didn't move.

"Molly."

"Give me a minute, okay?"

"This affects me just as much as you."

"So I can let you carry it then? It's not your fucking body, Sherlock!"

Oh. Of course. Stupid. He looked down, properly chastised.

"You're right. Take your time."

"Okay," she said. She stood where she was a bit longer. "Fuck, I have to piss." She hurried down the stairs and into the loo, shutting the door.

"Don't stand out there or I won't be able to do it. Go to the kitchen and get the timer."

He did as he was told. She flushed the toilet and turned on the tap. "Okay you can come in. Set it to two minutes."

She was drying her hands when he came in. She put the lid down on the toilet and sat down. He perched on the edge of the tub. The test was sitting on the sink.

Thirty second ticked by on the timer.

"I never wanted children, Sherlock."

"Don't you like them?" he said. He was surprised. He thought that she would want a car load of children.

"No, I love children. And at times I did think that I might want one, some day. But then I'd get another one on my slab and it just—I can't imagine loving something so much and having it taken away like that. And to be afraid of that for the rest of my life. And I know that any of us are likely to die any day, but they just seem so fragile. Their chests are so little—"

She scrubbed at her eyes with her palms and wiped the tears away. The kitchen timer dinged and she looked at the stick. She choked back a sob, put it back on the counter, stood, and walked out of the room.

He had seen her face, how all the color had washed out of it. He knew before looking at the test.

He looked anyway.

He was right behind her out the door and tried to grab her hand. She yanked it away.

"No," she said, and continued down the hall.

"Molly."

"No. Not now. Don't touch me."

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, watching her run up and slam the door to her room. She wasn't crying, but she was making quite a bit of noise. He went upstairs and knocked on the door.

"Molly, what are you doing?"

"Go away."

"Molly, I just need to know that you aren't going to try to hurt yourself."

"No," she said. "I'm just getting rid of all this fucking garbage in here. Making myself at home since I'm going to be here forever." He could hear her ripping things from the walls and crumpling them up. "And you'd better tell that bastard he needs to put in a fucking shower."

"Molly, let me help you at least."

"You can get me some bin liners."

When he returned, she opened the door and let him help her bag up most of the detritus of poor Maggie Moriarty's life.

"I don't know why I'm so upset, since he would have just made us try again." She ripped a poster down and wadded it up. "I guess—I guess I thought that maybe he'd give up, if it didn't happen. I had this wild hope that you were infertile." She laughed bitterly.

"I can't say I didn't entertain that hope as well."

She growled with frustration as she threw an armful of dolls into one of the bin liners. "I'm just not going to think about it as a baby. That's what we have to do. It's just a tumor. You know, I've removed melon sized tumors from people's abdomens before? They never even knew they were sick. Sometimes the tumor wasn't even the cause of death. "

"I'm not sure if that's the best idea."

"Of course it's not, but I have to get through the next few minutes and the next few after that and maybe I won't go completely mental if I have some sort of plan even if it's completely ridiculous."

She continued throwing things into bin liners. He hauled them down the stairs as she finished, leaving them outside by the barrel where the rubbish was burned. When she was finished, there was nothing in the room other than the furnishings, the lamps, the books in their case and all of her clothes. She was standing in the middle of the room, sweaty and exhausted. He stood in the doorway and they looked at each other. The frenetic energy of the past hour died and he could see her start to crack. He bounded across the room and took her in his arms, reaching her before the first sob could escape. She clung to him, fisting the back of his shirt in her hands.

"What are we going to do?" she said. "What the fuck are we going to do?"

He kissed the top of her head and held her more tightly.

"I don't know, Molly. I'm so sorry, but I don't know."


	29. Chapter 29

They expected Moriarty to show up immediately to gloat over his triumph, but they went over a week with no visitors other than Padraic bringing food and books.

Molly had started suffering from morning sickness within days of verifying the pregnancy, though hers lasted all day, which made her curse the misnomer. She had spent most of the week in her room, only coming down when she could make it to the loo, or to clean out the dustbin. She wouldn't let Sherlock help her with that part, though she did accept the tea and toast he made several times a day. Sometimes she was able to get something more substantial down in the evening.

When she tried spending time in the sitting room, on the sofa instead of lying in bed, she couldn't stand the smell of the leather or the fireplace. She looked pale and drawn and had obviously lost weight, but she assured him she would be fine as long as she stayed hydrated.

Molly was in her room and Sherlock was restringing his violin when there was a knock on the door. It wasn't Moriarty, who would have just come in. The milk came on Mondays and Thursdays and Padraic brought the groceries on Fridays.

A blue Fiat sat in the lane—he had been too absorbed in his thoughts to hear it pull up-but the visitor was standing too close to the door for Sherlock to see who it was.

"Who is it?"

"It's Martha, the midwife. I'm expected."

"Who sent you?"

"Your lass's brother. Don't tell me he didn't tell ya!"

Sherlock opened the door. Martha was a tall, spare woman in her mid-forties. She had the tight, finely lined skin and freckles of an inveterate traveler who never wore a hat or sunscreen. Long, iron colored hair and flowing skirt indicating counter culture tendencies. Her clean, professional medical bag suggested she was a nurse as well as a midwife. Non-smoker, not even marijuana. He stepped back and let her in.

"Molly's brother neglected to tell us you were coming, so I apologize for not expecting you. And, not to be rude, I'm sure he was very thorough, but what are your credentials?"

"You're not rude, just a good father," she said. "I've been a nurse for twenty years and midwife for fifteen. Was mostly doing the nursing bit, obstetrics, but then home births and what not became all trendy so I figured there may as well be more competent people out in the field." She produced a sheaf of papers from her bag, including her licenses and a slew of reference letters.

"Thank you," he said, glancing over them.

"So, where's the mum to be? Molly, right?"

"She's upstairs. She's been terribly ill. Let me go tell her you're here then you can go up and see her. Please have a seat."

The woman sat down and Sherlock went upstairs. He knocked softly on Molly's door and tried the doorknob. Thankfully it wasn't locked. He would have been hard pressed to explain to Martha why the mum to be had herself locked in her room. He was certain that Martha had no idea of the real situation.

Molly was curled up on her side, the dust bin conveniently placed by the bed adjacent to her head. He sat down on the bed but resisted his urge to touch her. She still flinched sometimes when he did that.

"Who's here?"

"Moriarty has sent you a midwife. Martha. Quite Scottish.

Molly shuddered. "Send her away. I don't want one of his people touching me."

"I don't believe she knows what's going on, and prenatal care is important. She's also a nurse, if that helps."

"It does."

"She seems a good mix of folk remedy and modern medicine. Shall I send her in? Maybe she can help with this nausea."

Molly nodded.

"Now, Molly, remember, you can't even hint about what's really going on. If you do, it puts us in danger as well as her."

She nodded again. He got up and went downstairs.

"She's ready. First door when you get to the top."

"Aye," said the midwife. She went upstairs and knocked gently on Molly's door.

Half an hour later, Martha returned downstairs.

"Everything's as it should be. She's a little over five weeks gone. Everything looks good. Not much I can do about the vomiting beyond what you two are already doing. It could pass any day now, or not until the second trimester, or not at all. I gave her the prenatals without iron for now. Since you're drinking well water, she'll be fine in that regard anyway. Have her drink a pint of Guinness a day. The vitamins and the calories will do her good."

"Excuse me, but did you just say that she should be drinking alcohol?"

"It's just a pint, and it works wonders in these cases. A half pint will do if you can get the short cans. Her caloric needs won't really increase for a few weeks, but she still needs to keep her strength up. The bairn will be fine. It takes what it needs from her. "

"How often will you be visiting?"

"Usually it's only once a month at this stage, but her brother's paying me to come every week."

"How generous."

"Doting, I'd say. Don't see that much in siblings. They must be orphans."

"Yes," he said with a tight smile.

"Well, here's a list of books to get you started," she said, handing him a piece of paper. "Her brother said she'd be getting her lab work done by a doctor in Dublin?"

"Yes," he said, though it was the first he'd heard of it.

"Good, that doc in town is a quack. I'll be back same time next week. Oh, and you need to stop smoking, young man. I don't care if it's not in the house, it lingers on you and the smell can't be doing anything for the poor dear's nausea, never mind the chemicals."

"I'll get some patches."

"See that you do."

He showed her out and watched her drive away.

It was a shame that the only thing he'd been able to pick from her pockets were a packet of gum and a couple of hair grips. He'd really been hoping for a mobile.

He went to Molly's room. Martha had left the door open. Molly was still in bed, but sitting up and reading.

"She's nice," she said. "And seems very competent." Her voice was forcefully bright, and she wouldn't look at him.

"Molly, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all, except that things keep happening that make it impossible to pretend this isn't real. There are times I wish that he had left me as—her. "

"Do you think I would have been any easier to wake up _after_ you'd had a baby?"

"I know it's not logical. I just keep hoping I'll wake up again in my flat with my stupid cat sitting on my chest mewling in my face. My mum must be so worried." She shook her head, and finally looked at him. "She never liked you."

"I'm fairly certain I've never met your mother."

"You haven't, but I told her about you. Mostly about your work, but she read between the lines. She said you sounded like trouble. I really hope she gets the chance to say she told me so." Her eyes filled, but she blinked rapidly and looked back at her book.

"I mentioned you to my mother, once," he said. He strode to the window and looked out at the garden. "I was telling her about my work, explaining it to her. I told her about the people I work with. She said that you either have the patience of a saint or were a confirmed masochist."

"Both," she said. "I'm pretty sure it's both."


	30. Chapter 30

Two days after Martha's visit, Molly not only came downstairs early in the morning, but was able to eat a decent breakfast. Sherlock realized that she hadn't been outside since she had woken up as herself again.

"Would you like to take a walk?" he asked her as she finished the last of her toast and jam.

She looked out the window.

"I guess," she said. "I'm supposed to try to be active or whatever." Padraic had been speedy in procuring what books he could from the list Martha had provided, and the ones that weren't available at the booksellers were on order. Sherlock had devoured one already, but Molly had only looked through them in a desultory manner, mainly looking at the anatomical diagrams. "It's been over three weeks, hasn't it? I haven't even put on shoes."

Outside, he took her down the lane in the opposite direction of the orchard and the barn. He didn't want to risk running into Ian or Padraic or any of the others, and he wasn't keen on revisiting the memories associated with the orchard, even though they were memories she didn't share.

None of their surroundings registered as familiar to Molly. She looked over the landscape in wonder and said it was beautiful. There were tears in her eyes, but they were unfathomable, because she always had tears in her eyes now. She had cried the day before over a particularly delicious peach as thoroughly as she had cried over missing her cat.

He wondered what part of her brain the memories of her time as Maggie Moriarty were locked, and if they would ever be accessible. Would she even want them to be accessible?

First trimester fatigue claimed her energy by the time they got back to the gate, but she wanted to stay outside, so he helped her settle on a blanket in the front garden, under a young willow tree. She was still there, dozing, when Sherlock spotted the grey Range Rover coming up the lane. He stiffened. This would be Molly's first time seeing Moriarty since she'd become herself again. The car stopped in front of the house, and Moriarty jumped out of the passenger side. A tall, copper skinned man with brilliant hazel eyes stepped out of the driver's seat, following closely behind the shorter man as he opened the gate and came into the garden.

Molly woke up at the sound of the gate creaking. She sat upright when she saw Moriarty. Incredibly, she clearly recognized the other man.

"No need to get up for me, Molly. You need your rest. I'd love to say that you're glowing, but that would be a lie. You look terrible. Is Sherlock not taking care of you?"

"I've been a bit under the weather," she said. She turned her gaze from Moriarty to the man beside him.

"Bonjou, Molly. Komen cape couri?" he said. He smiled, displaying a mouth full of perfect teeth. His eyes were malevolent not depraved like those of his boss.

"English, Sébastien," chided Moriarty. "Sherlock, this is Sébastien. Sébastien, Sherlock. Molly and he have met. He was Jim from IT's mate, came round to help Molly with her PC. Stayed around to switch out her pills and install some really scary stuff on her hard drive. Helped with some initial torture and terror a few days later. I think Molly might have fancied him more than she did Jim. She loves the enigmatic ones with the hypercolor eyes, doesn't she? "

Molly continued to glare at Sébastien. Moriarty looked at Sherlock. "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry if you're feeling neglected. Do tell us all about dear Bastien."

Sherlock sighed. "Louisiana Creole. French, Spanish, African. Expert marksman, military, early forties so very young Gulf War veteran, would have gone in to the military to earn college money or just to get out of the swamp never dreaming he'd actually end up in Kuwait of all places. Ambidextrous, also skilled at hand to hand combat, though no formal training. Atrocious table manners despite his outward appearance of elegance. "

Moriarty rubbed his hands together. "Mmm, doesn't that just get your motor humming, Molly?" She turned her gaze back to Moriarty and he shrugged. "No? Well, I suppose you might be bored of it by now. Let's go inside, we've got business to discuss and this is all a little idyllic for my tastes."

They sat in the dining room, Sherlock and Moriarty at the ends of the table. Molly sat to Sherlock's right and Sébastien stood to the right and slightly behind Moriarty.

"First things first," Moriarty began. "I am sure it goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway. You are both expected to follow your midwife's and your doctor's instructions to the letter. If either of you does anything to deliberately harm the fetus, I will know, and I will execute someone close to each of you in return. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock said at the same time that Molly said "Yes."

"I know what you're thinking. You're calculating, how long until it's too late for her to take the pills. How long before it's too late to have it sucked out of her. You're waiting for Big Brother to ride in, but I'll help you out with that one. Big Brother isn't coming. Honestly, Sherlock, if he were coming, don't you think he'd have found you by now?"

Sherlock had been looking at Molly, who was fighting desperately to stay calm. His eyes snapped back to Moriarty.

"I may have old Mycroft bent over a barrel, as the saying goes. Seems he'd rather let you figure this out on your own than have it leaked just how culpable his little brother and he were in the failure of Bond Air. I send him occasional proof that you're alive and well, and he makes sure that the police investigation goes nowhere. Not that they need much help in that regard, especially with Lestrade out of the picture."

Molly spoke up. "Does he know about—the baby?"

"Not yet. I'm waiting for the ultrasound, to make it as dramatic as possible."

"I just don't understand. What on earth will you do with a baby?"

"Molly dearest, what _won't_ I do with a baby? A young, fertile, hopefully brilliant mind, just right for shaping. " His eyes gleamed.

"Surely you won't take it until it's weaned, though, if you want it to be as bright and healthy as possible."

"We live in the twenty first century. We have these lovely innovations called milk banks. Breast may be best, but thankfully, any old breast will do. So I'll be taking it as soon as possible after birth. Though I do have to say it'd be interesting to see what would happen if I gave you some time with it. Not for your sake, of course. You won't admit it, even to yourself, but you're already head over heels. No, I wonder about him."

He looked at Sherlock for a long while, then shook his head. "I think you'll continue to be predictable. Love at first sight."

"And what if you're wrong?" Sherlock said.

"I'm not. But even if I am, I'm sure that your guilt over causing Molly so much pain will be almost as exhilarating to watch. Plus, there's your narcissism."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Molly broke in, quietly. "You won't be able to stand his having anything that's yours, even if it's something you don't really want."

"Very good, Molly. Now, on to more urgent business." He gestured to _Sébastien, who produced a small box from his jacket pocket and brought it over to Molly. She opened it, revealing a syringe, tourniquet, gloves, and several blood collection vials. _

_"Just the usual screenings," he said. "There's no use dragging you to Dublin or dragging your good doctor here just for some blood samples when Sébastien can deliver them. You don't mind doing them yourself, do you?"_

"No," she said, teeth gritted.

"Really? Sometimes you do surprise me, Molly."

"I'd do anything to keep any of your people from touching me."

"Oh you didn't like your midwife? She came so highly recommended."

"She's fantastic, but I don't think she's exactly one of your people."

"You're right, for the most part. Though there were a few modifications. We can't have her recognizing either of you, can we? She doesn't watch television and avoids most mainstream media, so she had no idea about either of you before, but we don't want to take any chances."

"I'd like some privacy, please."

"Of course. Come along Bastien. Let's see how our boys are doing."

As soon as they were out of the room, Molly sagged to the table and buried her head in her arms. "Dammit, I feel better for one day and of course that prick has to turn up. "

Sherlock rubbed her back and shoulder. "His timing has always been impeccable. Do you need my help with the blood samples?"

"Yes, actually," she said as she lifted her head. "My best vein is in my right arm. Go wash your hands."

When he returned, she had the supplies laid out neatly on the table and had rolled her sleeve up. She started to tell him the procedure, but he interrupted. "Molly, I know how to find a vein. Just walk me through what to do with the vials."

"Okay," she said softly. She made a fist and he tied the tourniquet.

"There are too many collection tubes here for the initial screenings. He needs my blood for something else."

"I know," he said as he disinfected the crook of her arm with an alcohol swab. "Probably to plant more evidence. Or to send to Mycroft to prove you're really pregnant."

She didn't flinch when he inserted the needle, which pleased him. The tubes were a bit slow to fill since she was slightly dehydrated. She didn't complain, though her skin lost color.

The most disconcerting part was how even performing this ritual on another person brought on one of the strongest cravings he'd had since his last stint in rehab. He pushed it aside and focused on filling the final tube. He removed the tourniquet, bandaged her arm, and placed the tubes back in their box before leading her back to her room to lie down.

He sat with her and told her about the time he'd kicked a nurse in the shin when he'd gone to get his jabs before being sent off to school. While they were talking, the front door opened, but the two men didn't call for them. Moriarty's footsteps could be heard entering and leaving the dining room, then the two men left, shutting the door firmly behind them.

Molly and Sherlock sighed as the car drove away.


	31. Chapter 31

Sherlock had been sleeping, albeit shallowly, fairly regularly in the month since Moriarty's visit. He rarely went to his room with the intention of sleeping. Rather, he would drift off in his chair or on the sofa. Once he had awoken in the grass outside, the sheets he'd hung on the line waving in the breeze above him, making him think for a moment he had died.

He often caught her staring at him. It wasn't the blank stare that still overtook her at times, the complete shutting off of her body as her mind tried desperately to fill in the missing three weeks of her life. She looked at him and her entire face was the question "Who are you?" She was constantly on the verge of asking him a who, a how, a why, and most burningly, a what, but she never got beyond the slightly opened mouth, and the turning away, saying something about his hair getting too long, or that she'd never seen him wearing that color.

For the most part, though, they existed in comfortable silence, similar to what he shared with John. She finally started reading the books in earnest, and would break the silence with a surprising or horrifying bit of information. He did explain to her all about what really happened with Irene Adler, and how he had spilled state secrets for the sake of showing off. She told him that it made her feel better about the time she shoplifted some sweets in order to impress her crush in grammar school, then laughed and changed the subject.

He was sleeping deeply on a rainy night, in his own bed, when her cries woke him. Her pregnancy sickness had come back soon after Moriarty's visit fluctuating in its severity. And with it had come nightmares. She usually pushed him away when he tried to comfort her, but he didn't stop trying. He couldn't abandon her, even though he was out of his depth and his first instinct was to run.

That night when he went into her room, she let him wake her and hold her in his arms until she stopped crying and her breathing returned to normal. She was sweating profusely, so he wiped her down with a towel and finger combed her hair. She lay down again, exhausted. He turned to leave but her hand on his arm stopped him.

"You can stay," she said. "I'm sorry I woke you again."

He lay beside her, facing her in the dark, her face illuminated by the infrequent flashes of lightning.

"What was it this time?"

"I was swimming. I don't know where. The water and the sky were black and I could hear a baby crying, but I couldn't find it and I was getting so tired. And all I wanted was to find the baby."

"It's okay," he said. "It's not real."

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"For what?"

"I took your virginity. He made me _rape_ you. He tricked you into raping _ me_. Who does that? What is _wrong_ with him?"

He put his hand on her face, and instead of flinching, she turned into its warmth and sighed. He brushed her hair back and returned his hand to the bed, where she covered it with hers.

"If I could pin down what it is that really makes him tick, I might have never lost the upper hand. If I ever had it."

"Do you really think he's got Mycroft as cornered as he says?"

He pitched his voice low enough so that it wouldn't be picked up over the rain and thunder. "No. If Mycroft is holding back on finding me, it's of his own free will, and he's just playing along with Moriarty. He's got that whole situation buried so deeply that it'd take someone with far greater skill even than Moriarty to dig it up. Even if he brought Irene out of hiding, she has no proof anymore. I assumed he wouldn't focus on finding me to begin with, and focus on Moriarty. For all I know he may know exactly where we are. I don't know what will happen once he knows about the baby, however."

"He can't really want it, can he? He's just trying to scare us. He has to be."

"Molly, I think it's best if you don't stop believing for one second that he will take this baby the second the cord is cut and that we may never see it again."

She shuddered and drew closer to him.

"I'd mostly forgotten about Bastien. He was so sweet. As different when I met him as Jim was. When he came to fix my computer, he made me gumbo and told me all about his uncle who was a taxidermist. We watched _True Blood_ and he said was stupid, but it made him homesick. And I thought, after it all—I told myself that he must have been just as taken in by Jim as I was. I never thought to mention him to you or the police because I just thought he was another friend who Jim duped and used. And maybe if I hadn't still been so trusting and naïve, you might have found what he put on my computer. Whatever it was they used to start triggering me."

"Molly, if I dwelled on what ifs, in this situation or any other, I would never get anything done. There are a thousand different points at which a different decision could have made this turn out differently. My mind has followed all of them down infinite roads. But we can't change any of that. If there are alternate universes, maybe our other selves are doing those things. I don't know if that's comforting to you or not. And besides, I never asked you if Jim had any friends who might be accomplices, did I?"

"Why didn't you?"

"Arrogance, made me miss it. I imagined he only used you to gain access to me in an unassuming way. I never imagined you were the key, especially after he strapped that bomb to John."

She ran her hand over his forehead, smoothing the wrinkles as though she were trying to smooth away the memories.

"Why didn't you tell me you had sex with Moriarty?" Her hand stopped its progress just as it had delved into his hair.

"Oh," she said. "Did he tell you that, or did you know the whole time?"

"He told me. While you were, erm, sleeping off Maggie."

"I just felt so stupid about it. And I didn't want you to know how stupid I was. He was the last person I had sex with. I mean—he's the last person I remember having sex with. "

He put his hand on her belly. Ten weeks. She had finally started gaining back the weight she lost at the beginning. While her abdomen was still relatively flat, there was a tautness to it just beneath the skin and muscle.

"Was he right, when he said you were already in love with it?"

"You know, if I hadn't been so fucking infatuated with you, I wouldn't have been as useful. The whole Maggie thing wouldn't have worked because it wouldn't have had that kernel of truth."

"Molly."

"When I did let myself think I might want a child, I only ever thought that it would be yours. You're the only one I ever would have had a baby with, even if you turned out to be the most unfeeling father on the planet. And I just think, god, what if he knew somehow? What if I was so transparent that I gave him the idea? And now there's this poor baby…"

"It's not your fault, Molly. Please don't ever believe that any of this is your fault."

She hid her face in his chest and shook her head. "I'm trying. But the guilt won't go away and I'm so confused, not being able to remember so much." She sat up. "You don't have to stay, if you don't want to. I'm okay now. I'm going to read until I'm sleepy again."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Only if you want to."

"Have you got anything I haven't read yet?"

She turned on the lamp and tossed him a book, one of the more dense, research centered ones. He propped himself up on pillows next to her and stole glances at her as she read. When her book began to sag on her chest, he took it from her, set it on the bedside table, and pulled the duvet over her. He continued to read beside her, well after dawn. Her sleep was quiet.


	32. Chapter 32

Molly started keeping a journal. She asked Sherlock to ask Padraic to get her a moleskine, and he complied quickly. Sherlock scoffed at her need to document everything, teasingly comparing her to John.

"The days are starting to run together, though. And I also want to write down my dreams. If it's all subconscious stuff, there may be some memories mixed up in there."

She was right about the way the days were blurring together. He was acutely aware of the changes in weather and foliage, and the shortening daylight hours as autumn advanced but otherwise the days were largely the same. He had started charting her symptoms and development in his own notebook. He started by tracking a dozen or more variables, but she finally told him that he had to stop asking about her cervical mucus and nipple color so he narrowed it down to things he could easily observe like her energy level, food intake, and physical activity.

She had never said that her journal was private, or that she didn't want him to see it, but neither had she actively shared it with him. One day, however, she wandered off into the kitchen to forage and left it lying open next to her chair. With only the faintest twinge of guilt, he read the open page.

_I feel terrible asking him to stay after my nightmares, but it really does help me sleep better having someone there. It was the same when I was a little girl. It's just so weird because sometimes I wake up and he has his arms around me or I'm lying on his chest and it's just so intimate and it reminds me of how all of this…stuff happened between us that I don't even remember. And I also feel badly because at first it just feels so wonderful, but this whole situation is just so utterly wrong and I know I shouldn't like it. But I do. And maybe it's okay to find little things that are wonderful despite all of this awfulness. _

_At least I'm not throwing up all the time anymore. I think I've had enough ginger beer and Guinness to last me the rest of my life. _

_Martha coming today and said she'd be bringing a portable sonogram device. I am so nervous. We have to act like we're thrilled and excited but I'm so afraid. I don't want to see it. I'm even more afraid of feeling it. I know it should be any day now. Hearing the heartbeat was bad enough. According to one of the books it's the size of a mango. It's so funny, all the fruit comparisons, but I suppose it makes sense considering what fruits are…_

_Okay now I really want a mango and where the hell am I going to get one in rural Ireland in October? And isn't that a little cannibalistic, considering?_

The things she wrote were the kinds of things they only talked about in the dark, when there was nothing between them but a few inches of space and their eyes were in shadow.

He hated that she still felt so much guilt. He hated that she couldn't grasp onto any bit of happiness possible without it increasing that guilt. But he had no idea what to do about it. When she came back from the kitchen with a bowl full of strawberries and clotted cream, he took out his violin and played a piece he'd been composing, which started from a chord progression inspired by the changing leaves and the color of Molly's hair in the waning sun.

Martha pulled up just as he was finishing, so he opened the door and greeted her on the stoop. She carried what looked like a laptop bag in addition to her usual medical bag. A flurry of brittle brown leaves flew in the door with her.

"That lane is going t'be nigh impossible to get down once winter hits if you don't throw down some gravel. And I hope you're putting in that shower like you said? She's not really popped yet but it'll be treacherous getting in and out of that boat of a bathtub real soon."

"And how are you, Martha?" Sherlock said.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Good lord, young man, are you wearing two nicotine patches? It's been weeks, it can't still be that bad, ya big baby."

"Some of us don't have quite your fortitude. And yes, the workmen are coming soon to put in the shower and there has been some talk about winterizing the lane."

"Good. I know you two are set on this rustic existence and all but I'd still suggest spending the winter in the city or at least in the village. You can still come back out here in the spring to have the whole birthing on a farm experience."

"Thank you, Martha."

"I know, I know, put a cork in it. Okay, lass, you know the drill," she said, handing Molly a urine collection cup. She went to the lavatory while Martha set up her sonogram machine, which was very much like a laptop. She selected a wand and plugged it in.

"I know you've been keeping up in your notebook. How much weight has she gained?"

"Seven pounds from your first visit so about four pounds net over where we estimated her starting weight before the pregnancy sickness."

"Well, she's still a little behind but as long as everything else continues to look good and she keeps gaining she should be fine. I see her tummy's finally started to round out a bit, too."

When Molly came back with the urine sample, Martha donned a pair of gloves and used a testing strip to determine the protein levels. Satisfied, she had Molly dump it. She took all of the usual measurements, and had Molly lie on the sofa and lift her shirt.

"Sorry if this is cold, love," she said as she squeezed gel on Molly's abdomen. She pressed a few buttons and placed the wand on Molly's belly. After a few passes, the image on the small screen resolved into the silhouette of a baby. It was sucking its thumb and had one tiny foot extended.

Sherlock hoped that Molly's tears and dismayed expression would read as joy to the midwife.

"Everything looks fine and healthy. D'ya want to know the sex?" Sherlock looked at Molly, who shook her head.

"No," he said, still looking at Molly. "We want it to be a surprise. It doesn't matter to us either way."

"Your brother said you probably wouldn't want to know, but he does want to know, if it's okay to tell him? He said it'd be easier to plan gifts and such."

"Yes, that's fine," Sherlock said, as though they had a choice. He looked from Molly to the screen again.

He could see the baby's hear t beating.

After Martha left, Molly sat in her chair until sunset with the printout beside her. She was expressionless, other than the occasional tear that spilled down her cheek. Once all the light had died outside, she went to her room and closed the door, leaving the photo on her chair.

Sherlock was pondering it when a car pulled up. He was almost to the door when _Sébastien walked in._

"Bonswa, Sherlock," he said, advancing on Sherlock and taking him by the arm. "Forgive my intrusion, but we really must be going now."

"What?" Sherlock said, his consciousness slipping just as he noticed the empty hypodermic needle in Sébastien's hand.


	33. Chapter 33

Two sounds, distinctly rhythmic, invaded Sherlock's disjointed dreams and pulled him back into reality.

Bright sun. Too bright. Equatorially bright. Or he could just be hungover. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, which was strangely in time to a wobbly ceiling fan, which was the source of one of the noises.

The other was the low roar of waves breaking on a beach. Where the fuck was he? He sat up, working through the spear of blinding pain that went through his head and the fact that he was rocking back and forth. He was clothed, in what he had been wearing yesterday. Was it yesterday? He was in a hammock in a one room house with a front that seemed to be made entirely of windows. It was nestled in a cove of trees, but he could just make out a beach a few hundred yards away.

"Bonmaten, Sherlock."

Sébastien was sitting in a chair, rolling a cigarette."

"Bonjour, Sébastien. Où suis-je?"

"Don't sweat it, Sherlock. All tropical paradise is the same, non?"

"Is Molly here?"

"She's still on the farm. She's being taken care of. You need to relax, enjoy your little holiday, because you're about to be a damn busy boy." He handed Sherlock a bottle of water from a mini refrigerator.

"You mean to create a false trail, having me make some appearances here and there throughout the world. You have some poor brainwashed girl who can pass for Molly on hand to help strengthen those eye witness stories? And a good supply of Molly's blood, and some hair as well. Not enough blood for them to presume her dead, but enough to make it look as though she was gravely injured. It will be even more damning when she stops being seen with me. And of course since you took the blood since she's been pregnant, it will indicate that I sexually assaulted her."

"Hell, James said you were good."

"It's obvious. Is my brother getting too close for comfort?"

"Naw. James is bored. You're bored. I'm a little bored. I think Molly's even bored being Molly and not getting fucked on the regular anymore." He finished rolling a second cigarette, lit it and handed it to Sherlock before lighting his own. "Oh, and thanks to your proclivity for rough sex, we have some video that can be edited convincingly. I think my favorite was when you pinned her arms behind her and bent her over the dining room table. Her hair is hiding her face so you can't tell how thirsty she is for it."

Three feelings ripped through Sherlock in quick succession: a moment of traitorous lust at the memory, white hot rage at the idea of Molly having been so exposed, and shame that his weakness had been the cause. He took a long pull from the cigarette and resisted the urge to put it out in Sébastien's beautiful eye.

"Well," he said, with effort. "I'm certainly glad it's been entertaining."

"Aw Sherlock, don't worry. The grunts didn't see anything. Fuck no. They aren't even allowed in the control room. But the guys doing the monitoring? They'd have to be dumb as hell to turn the cameras off, especially with as much as y'all was fucking those last few days. And of course Jimmy has a direct feed."

"Do you have access to that feed?"

"You worried about your little mouse? "

"I would like verification that she is indeed well."

"Later, as long as don't act a fool."

"And if I do?"

Sébastien sighed. "This shit is getting old Sherlock."

"I'd rather not make assumptions when lives are at stake."

"Okay, I'll play. If you don't do what I say, exactly as I say, without being a fucking smartass, John Watson will lose a thumb. Both if you piss me off enough. Ou konprann?"

"Yes. So what now."

"First, we get you cleaned up. Shower, shave—and you'll love this—a new suit. I've got a lady coming to cut your hair. She's gonna cut it short. Then we're going into Willemstad where you'll withdraw all of the cash from your bank account—"

"I don't have a bank account in Curaçao."

"Big brother didn't tell you? It's a good thing he set it up, though, since all of your assets in England are frozen. We'll be visiting some of your other stashes, too, before you go out of pocket again."

"And how long is this escapade to last?"

"You'll be back before the snow flies." He went over to the sliding front door and opened it. "You know, I was twenty years old before I ever saw snow? When I joined the army I wanted to get stationed somewhere like Germany or the Netherlands. Maybe Norway. Anywhere it got cold. I wanted to feel it in my bones, the way it was described in books and on tv. And then right after I finished basic, that crazy bastard invaded Kuwait, then our crazy bastard decided to liberate it, and I ended up in the fucking desert. But now, after living in England for so long, I don't know what the fuck I was ever thinking, wanting the cold. This is the life, right here."

He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in a tourist shop ashtray. "Ah, there's Miss Phoebe, now." Come in, Miss Phoebe, and make some tea," he called to a plump, dark brown woman in her sixties making her way up the path. "He still needs to shower."

The outdoor beach shower had a privacy screen, and Sébastien stood on the other side, gun cocked, while Sherlock bathed. Sébastien kept up a steady monologue, saying a lot but revealing nothing, the cadence of his words counterpoint to the drumming of the tepid water on the tin walls.

"Yeah, Miss Phoebe will do you right. There's enough white folks on the island that she stays in practice. She used to work for this couple in New York. Million dollar Upper West Side apartment and they were so cheap they had the nanny do the kids' haircuts. That's how she learned to do white folks' hair. I hope you're not tender headed, though. She got no sympathy for that."

Miss Phoebe was as rough as Sébastien had warned. Her quick hands worked with the scissors and comb as she spoke with Sébastien in rapid French, green eyes sparkling as she told Sherlock every once in a while in English to hold still. She chopped off much more than he was used to, but the cut was flattering and he felt infinitely lighter. He hadn't gone so long without a haircut since uni.

The pale grey Brooks Brothers tropical weight suit that Sébastien provided fit nicely for not having been tailored. The shirt was a lightweight oxford, barely discernible as violet. Moriarty had been sensible enough to not include a tie. He slipped on the shoes and looked in the mirror. He hadn't worn a light colored suit in years, but he felt more himself than he had in weeks.

"Okay, Sherlock, it's show time. The car's around the way. We have to pick up our Molly lookalike first. We'll only just make it before the bank closes." He handed Sherlock a white Panama hat with a band that matched his shirt. "You do look sharp. Sharper than James, but don't tell him I said that."

"I'll try my best."

"Let's do this. As they say back home, laissez les bon temps roullez."


	34. Chapter 34

"Aisling, you will only answer to the name Molly. You will speak only when spoken to and will use as few words as possible when answering. You will speak with a London accent. You will remain with Sherlock at all times unless otherwise directed. You will go into the bank with Sherlock and wait patiently while he withdraws his money. There are cameras throughout the bank, all on the ceiling. You will not look directly into any of them. You will keep your head down. You will leave the bank with Sherlock and get back in the car. You will await further instruction. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said the young woman on the sofa in the sitting room of a shabby beach cottage. She was Irish, meaning Moriarty had not had to go far to find a suitable doppelgänger for Molly. She was the same height and build, with long brown hair and big brown eyes. With a hat and sunglasses, she could definitely pass, despite the fact that she was noticeably thinner, and was a chronic intravenous drug user. He knew now why Molly's blood had been drawn so early as this girl would never pass for further along than twelve weeks pregnant without serious effort. If her blood was tested for it, the hCG level would be a key indicator as to how far along she was.

"Good, Aisling," Sébastien continued, his tone light and pleasant. "Now I need you to brush your hair and braid it, then put on these clothes." He indicated a pair of beige linen trousers and a pink long sleeved shirt in a plastic zipper bag. They were necessary despite the heat, since Aisling's arms were riddled with track marks and there were scars on her legs from where she had been picking and scratching at them.

She made quick work of her hair, then stripped to her knickers in the middle of the sitting room. She wasn't wearing a bra. Sherlock averted his eyes until she was clothed again, though he had noted that she had scars all over her body, of various age.

"One more thing, Aisling. Imagine a very tall electrified fence, covered in razor wire. On the other side of that fence are fatigue, thirst, hunger and drug cravings. It is miles high and miles long. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

When the girl was ready, Sébastien went over her quickly with a lint roller. He slung a rifle case over his shoulder and instructed Aisling to carry his bag. As they walked outside, their driver folded up his newspaper and opened the car door. They piled in, Aisling seated primly between the two men. They rode in silence, the ocean on one side and dense foliage on the other, until the trees thinned and they descended into Willemstad, which looked to Sherlock like Amsterdam would if it were on a back lot at Disney World.

They parked a block away on a street perpendicular to the one the bank was on. The bank was situated directly in front of them between a grocery store and a head shop. Sébastien leaned over and whispered a few words into Aisling's ears. Her posture and demeanor changed instantly. She wasn't fully alert, but much of her vacancy was gone. She put on a wide brimmed hat and dark sunglasses. Sébastien removed the rifle from the case and sighted the window of the bank. He handed Sherlock his passport and a slip of paper with an account number on it.

"Withdraw it all, in American dollars. Come directly back here. Don't even breathe funny."

The transaction at the bank went smoothly. The only snag came when they asked him why he was closing his account. He smiled and said he was buying a bit of property. The withdrawal came to just under fifty thousand dollars.

Back in the car, Sébastien lavished Aisling with praise and instructed her further.

"When we arrive at the hotel, you will again wait patiently beside Sherlock pays for the room. There is only one camera, facing the counter. You will not look at it and you will not look directly at anyone. You will follow Sherlock to the hotel room. Once inside, you may sit quietly on the bed but you may not touch anything. The surfaces are very hot and you will burn your hands if you touch anything that I do not tell you to touch. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said.

The hotel was shabby, but not in a way that attracts the type of tourist looking for an "authentic" experience. It was shabby in a way that attracts people looking to rent rooms by the hour.

"Sherlock," Sébastien said. "Ask for a room on the ground floor and pay for it plus an extra grand. That'll make sure they ignore any noise complaints. One camera, like I said. Good sign of a shady motel, means they care more about the bottom line than they do about guest safety. Perfect for our little game, though."

"I assume you won't be checking in with us."

"Nope, I'll come in the back way and wait in the ground floor hallway, outside the camera's range."

"You're going to let me out of your sight?"

"I got no need to worry, right?"

Sherlock was silent.

"Even if you were stupid enough to try something, you wouldn't get far considering who I got working for me in the lobby. Konprann?"

"Yes."

"After you," he said.

The room was quickly sorted, and Sherlock watched with fascination as Aisling went directly to the bed and sat down with her hands folded in her lap. She was like a computer awaiting its next command prompt.

Sébastien had put on gloves and was making sure not to touch anything, either. He reached in his bag and pulled out a small leather pouch. He withdrew a syringe, a tourniquet, an alcohol swab, and a rubber capped vial of clear liquid.

"First, you need to unwind a little. Be my guest," Sébastien gestured to the works as though he were offering him a glass of lemonade.

"Is this really necessary?"

"It is if I say it is."

"Which is it this time? The one you and 'Maggie' used on me, or the one Moriarty used on her?" He doubted it was either, since one was given subcutaneously and the other orally.

"Something new," he said. "Now shoot that shit up."

Sherlock inspected the vial, but could tell nothing from the contents. It had no label, either. The syringe was new, individually wrapped.

"How many milligrams?"

"Start with ten."

Sherlock took a few deep breaths, willing his heart rate to slow and his hands to stop shaking. It wasn't fear. It was impatience and anticipation. An ancillary response to the ritual of injecting. He got up and calmly hung up his jacket He sat back on the bed and rolled up his sleeve. He put the needle in the vial and withdrew a little over ten milligrams. He tapped out the air bubbles and depressed the plunger until the liquid was just at the tip of the needle. He didn't waste a drop.

He set the filled syringe down carefully on the table and wiped the crook of his arm with the alcohol swab. He made a fist before he tied off. And there it was, the vein he'd never managed to destroy, bulging beautifully under the nearly translucent skin of his inner arm. He inserted the needle and pulled the plunger up until a drop of red cut through the clear liquid. He breathed deeply and a moment of pure calm washed over him as he untied and depressed the plunger.

He was immediately bombarded with a wave of pleasure he hadn't experienced in three years. His eyes rolled back and he fell back limply on the bed. This wasn't one of Moriarty's mystery drugs. This was diamorphine-pure pharmaceutical grade heroin. The pills he'd stolen from 'Maggie' back in Ireland were nothing. It was like comparing a Mars bar to chocolate crème brûlée, or breaking and entering to serial murder.

He heard Sébastien's voice, dimly. "Sherlock, your rig."

"Wha?" he said, lifting his head from the mattress.

"Your fucking rig is still in your arm. Take it out, and put it on the table."

He fumbled, but did as he was told. He lay back again and let himself float, aware that he was absolutely and thoroughly fucked, but not quite being able to give a damn. He turned his head. Aisling was still sitting calmly on the bed, hands in her lap.

"Look at him, Molly," said Sébastien. She turned her head toward Sherlock. "He's quite beautiful, isn't he. You've been very good, and I might let you have him later. But you can't in this room, okay?" The girl nodded. "Good, Molly. You can touch him now, but only with your hand."


	35. Chapter 35

He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. Though the slippery push pull of Molly's cunt on his prick had never felt this real in any of the dreams he'd had of her since she woke up as Molly. Maybe everything else had been the dream. Maybe the whole last year had been a dream. He moaned softly and reached out to grab her hips. He opened his eyes.

It was all wrong. Scars and visible ribs. Smaller breasts. Hair not quite the right color or texture. Aisling was fucking him, riding him hard with her fingers digging into his chest. He took her by the wrists and started to push her off.

"I don't think so, Sherlock," said Sébastien. "Let her finish. She's earned it." He punctuated his sentence by cocking his gun. They were back in the cottage where they had collected Aisling, on the sofa, while Sébastien watched from a battered wingback chair.

The girl hadn't stopped moving. Sherlock registered that it felt good, but was oddly detached from his body, as though he were the one sitting in the chair in the corner, watching. He kept his hands away from her and observed her clinically. The way her face went slack and her jaw dropped when she finally orgasmed. The flush that crept over her breasts. The ways in which her vagina felt different from Molly's. He looked to where their bodies met and was relieved to see he was wearing a condom.

She kept riding him even after she peaked, but after a few strokes she frowned.

"He's gone soft but he never came" she said petulantly to Sébastien. Her Irish accent had returned.

"Oh, it's not you, cher. Well, it might actually be you. But whatever, get off him and go get a snack.

Aisling did as she was told, tossing the condom before shimmying into her knickers and Sherlock's shirt. She went to the kitchen. Sherlock pulled up his pants and trousers, and hauled himself to a sitting position.

He reached back into the fuzzy depths of his short term memory. He remembered flashes of the car ride back, his head leaning against the opened window, taking in gulps of wet night air. He went back further, to the hotel room. His shirt unbuttoned and open, pants and trousers down, Aisling sitting there placidly, expressionless, as she casually got him off with her hand.

"Now," Sébastien had said to her. "You scream and cry out like you're being fucked when you don't want to be."

Fear and sadness had played across her features briefly, but her face was vacant again as she followed the commands. Sébastien came over and put his hand over her mouth.

"Tell her to shut up, Sherlock," he said softly.

"Shut up."

"You can do better than that. Tell this fucking cunt to shut the fuck up."

He put his hand over his eyes and yelled, "Shut the fuck up you fucking cunt."

On the final word, Sherlock had ejaculated in hot ropes all over his stomach. Sébastien took his hand off of Aisling's mouth and kicked over the night stand. He whispered to Aisling to stop screaming and start sobbing, no tears. He cleaned off her hand with a handkerchief, which he put in a plastic zipper bag with his gloves. He donned a new pair and turned his attention back to Sherlock.

"Wipe it on the bedspread," he instructed, and Sherlock complied, head swimming. "Now get dressed and sit next to her on the bed."

Aisling was still sobbing loudly, though her face was dry. He whispered in her ear. She nodded. Sébastien stood up again, and punched Sherlock in the jaw. Aisling cried out as though she'd been hit. Sébastien hit Sherlock again and again, and Aisling cried out with every punch. Sherlock registered the pain, but only superficially. He just couldn't care.

Things were blurry after that. Sébastien making him put a handprint in Molly's blood on the bedspread. Strewing strands of Molly's hair on the bed. His gently applying something to Aisling's fingers and finally letting her touch things in the room. Making sure she put bloody prints on the telephone as she dialed the police. She said "This is Molly Hooper and I've been kidnapped in a soft English accent" before she screamed. Sébastien hit Sherlock again and Aisling slammed down the phone.

Sébastien removed whatever it was he'd put on Aisling's fingers and put it in the bag with the handkerchief and gloves. He instructed Sherlock to take the girl out the back door where a car would be waiting. He was less than sixty seconds behind them, having made sure the room was staged perfectly. They pulled away from the motel just as flashing lights became visible in the distance. Sherlock had fallen asleep on the ride back to the cottage.

Aisling came back into the room with a packet of mini donuts and a pudding cup. She turned on the telly and watched an episode of Friends, dubbed in Spanish.

"Is she—herself?" Sherlock asked.

"As much as she can be considering how strung out she is. Who the hell knows what she's really like. She was so far gone from an abscess when we found her that we weren't sure we could use her, since Molly Hooper has all of her limbs."

"Where did you find her?"

"Some squat in Wexford. Not important. Her family stopped looking for her years ago."

"You made duplicates of Molly's fingerprints, didn't you?" His head was clearing incrementally, though with that lucidity came a low buzz of need in the background. He tried to ignore it.

"Yeah, and that particular technique has made James a shit ton of money."

"So in that hotel room, we left my semen, a syringe with traces of my blood and heroin, Molly's hair, fingerprints and blood, my fingerprints in said blood, and possibly some of my blood where you hit me, which would be expected if Molly defended herself. Anyone in the neighboring rooms would have heard what sounded like assault. And hopefully no evidence of anyone else in the room, though that could just be attributed to shoddy housekeeping. A phone call allegedly from Molly Hooper alerting the police. Did I miss anything?"

"Nope."

"What if they discover that Molly's blood has been frozen?"

"They have to test for that, and why would they? They'll see what they want to see. They'll make the evidence fit whatever theory they already have. And if they are that thorough, then they'll assume you already killed her and are trying to make it look like she's still alive, meaning you've kidnapped yet another poor little white girl."

"And what happens to her after this?"

"We gotta keep her around a little while, in case we need her again. After, we either drop her back off where we found her, or get rid of her. I'd say the boss is gonna lean toward the second option."

"Why? No one will believe her even if she does remember any of this."

"Come on, Sherlock, does it really matter? She's the walking dead anyway. Not everyone has an overprotective big brother to pull them out of the shit."

Sherlock looked at her. She seemed perfectly content, but then she was also obviously high. He wondered where on her ravaged body one could even find a good vein. He scratched at his own arm absently.

"Why is he going through this much fucking trouble? My reputation is already ruined. He's obviously set on taking the baby. Why all of this added drama?"

"He told you; he's a storyteller. He's telling the story that everyone wants. This is what the public wants. It's what the police want. To write you off as just some ordinary drug addicted rich boy asshole with too much time on his hands. Someone who was never special. You read the papers, how the guys you went to school with are pissing themselves trying to make sure everyone knows that they always saw through you."

"Those bastards never liked me."

"True, but they also believed you were brilliant even if you were an asshole. And come on, you were probably better looking than half those pasty inbred fuckers, and you were smarter? And chose _not_ to fuck all the ladies even though you could have? Those motherfuckers have been waiting for you to get yours since the first time you told them that you could tell they still wet the bed by the scuffs on their shoes or whatever. And the police? You know the drill. They'll say you're slipping. You're losing control. On a drug bender and a spending spree. Only a matter of time before you really slip up. Just like the movies.

"And you also know that even if you're good and you get back to your old life, and Big Brother wipes the slate clean and they let you work with the Met again, there's still going to be people who don't believe in you. Or who never heard the story about how you were innocent all along. Because bad news travels farther and wider than good. Someone's always gonna whispering 'ain't that the one who did that one thing?'" Sébastien grinned and looked at his watch. "You look rough, man. Time for your medicine, don't you think?"


	36. Chapter 36

Sherlock lost track of time. Completely. Between the travel and time zone changes and the amount of time he spent sleeping, he had no idea what day it was or how long Sébastien had had him. Every new place played out similarly to Curacao, though sometimes they just made an on camera appearance somewhere without any displays of violence. Sometimes there was a bank account to empty, sometimes not. And very often, he was given to Aisling as a reward for following Sébastien's instructions.

The few times she made him come, it felt like a betrayal.

Aisling was sent away when they left Madagascar, a separate private jet taking her back to Curacao for the time being, according to Sébastien. Now the narrative would read that Molly Hooper was presumed dead.

Sébastien was playing with the authorities, dangling Sherlock like a cat toy, sometimes coming within minutes of capture before pulling away. He slept less than Sherlock ever had, and when he did catch an hour or two, there was always a silent specter of a minder making sure Sherlock behaved. He sometimes tried to engage them in staring matches, but Sherlock nearly always nodded off.

In Rio, Sébastien kept his word and gave Sherlock a glimpse of Molly in Ireland. They were holed up in a corporate apartment in a high rise after having barely escaped the police. Sébastien was waiting for things to calm down before going to the airfield. Sherlock was riding a pleasant buzz, not completely zonked and not quite needing another hit.

"What did you tell her?" he asked, as Sébastien pulled up the feed. Molly was curled up on the sofa. Even on the small tablet's screen, everything about her body language broadcast misery.

"We thought about telling her you'd taken up James on his offer to let you leave, but you know, too much stress isn't good for the baby. So we just told her I needed to borrow you for a minute."

Sébastien swiped the screen to zoom in. Her eyes were red and puffy and she kept scrubbing at her nose. Suddenly, her face changed and she put a hand to her belly. Sherlock leaned in, concerned. She sat up and her look of confusion melted into one of wonder, then joy.

"What just happened?" Sherlock said.

"I don't have any kids," Sébastien answered, "but I got five sisters. And I might be wrong but I think she just felt it move for the first time."

Sherlock peered at the small screen. Molly had gone still, her hand on her belly, focusing inward. Every few seconds a smile would flutter across her lips. From what Sherlock had read, she was feeling something like air bubbles in her uterus, or like someone tickling her with a feather from the inside.

Eventually her smile died away completely. She put her head in her hands and cried.

"That's enough," he said. He went to the window and looked out over the city. The tracers from the cars and streetlights blurred his vision. He leaned his forehead against the glass. There was not enough of any kind of intoxicant in the world to blunt what he felt

In a moment of lucidity, about a week later, it became clear to Sherlock that he wasn't following Sébastien's orders to ensure his friends' safety anymore. He was doing it to ensure his next hit. For the first time since this all started, he thought it might be best if he got himself killed. Or did it himself. He smiled when he imagined the wrath that would come down on Sébastien's handsome head if Sherlock overdosed. He monitored the detective's usage carefully, doling out just enough to keep him strung out and malleable, but with a little sleight of hand he might be able to draw out thirty milligrams instead of ten—

What was left of his rational mind slammed down on the thought almost as soon as it formed. He couldn't leave Molly to fend for herself in this situation. Though it wasn't guaranteed he would ever get back to her, or what shape he would be in if he did.

In the end, Sébastien kept offering and Sherlock kept taking, more and more, until one night he fell asleep in Ibiza and woke up on the doorstep of the farmhouse, shivering and covered in a fine dusting of snow.

His joints were stiff as he climbed to his feet. The lights were out but thankfully the door wasn't locked. He stumbled inside, the heat from the dying fire making his skin sting.

"Molly?" he called out. His mouth was dry, his voice rough. Her bedroom door opened and she ran down the stairs. She stopped when she saw him, catching herself on the bannister to keep her feet from skidding from under her.

"Sherlock? Oh my god, Sherlock what's he done to you? How long have you been out there?"

"I don't know," he said, teeth chattering.

Her shock dropped away and was replaced with professional efficiency. She rushed to him and helped him out of his damp clothes, sat him next to the fire, and added more logs. When those had caught, she turned on every lamp in the room and inspected Sherlock for signs of exposure. She gasped when she saw the injection sites on his left arm, looking up at him with growing horror. He always became more careless the longer he used. He didn't always untie before injecting, and he'd gone through his vein a few times due to shaking hands. The result was that the inside of his arm was mottled with bruises, from dark purple to yellow, a backdrop for fresh track marks.

"Right," she said. "I'll deal with that later. One thing at a time. Sherlock, we have a shower now. Do you think you can stand long enough to take one? It will help warm you up faster. But I can also run a bath."

He looked at her blankly. She had shadows under her eyes, but her hair was thick and glossy and her skin was absolutely glowing. She couldn't really be this beautiful, could she? This had to be a dream. Or maybe he had died, either from an overdose, or outside in the cold, and it was all over.

"Okay," she said. "I'll run a bath. And I'll make tea while we wait and I'll get your—arm cleaned up." She wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

"Molly," he croaked as she started to stand.

"What is it?"

"I—I _missed_ you."

She put her lovely soft palms on his cheeks and kissed his forehead. "I missed you, too," she said, and hurried down the hall.

Once he was in the bath, and the situation wasn't quite a dire, she became shy about his nakedness. It was perplexing at first, but then he remembered. She had never actually seen him naked. She focused on his arm, looking for signs of infection and thoroughly cleaning it.

"Molly."

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever helped someone who was going through detox?"

"I know the physiology. But no—I haven't actually witnessed it. Or helped anyone."

"It's not going to be pretty, and it won't be long before it starts. I have no real idea when my last hit was, but I know the signs."

"You're talking like you're going to turn into a werewolf."

"In a way, that's what it feels like. Like my bones are changing form and breaking through my skin."

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"Most of it, yes. And I'll tell you. But I—I can't yet. This is going to be awful, and I will probably say things to you that I will never forgive myself for. And I'll understand completely if you just want to leave me be and check on me every few hours to make sure I'm breathing."

It was so hard meeting her eyes, because they were so damnably full of love and concern, and he didn't deserve any of it.

"I wish I could kill him," she said.

"Which one?"

"Both of them, actually."

"I'm not worth it."

"Shut up. I'm the one who gets to decide that. And you're not going through this by yourself."


	37. Chapter 37

The bed sheets were soaked again, making him cold, making him shiver more and rubbing his skin raw. He didn't know if it was all sweat. There could be vomit. There was lots of snot and tears. He may have pissed himself. He didn't want her to check. He didn't want her to change the sheets again because she would see. Not just the sweat and piss and puke and tears and snot but his pathetic form all wrung out like the flannel she used to cool his fevered forehead while she looked at him with all that fucking love in her eyes.

How the fuck could she still love him, a pathetic husk transporting a withered brain that couldn't even count ten decimals of pi or name any of the noble gases which is primary school. Fucking primary school. And all because of this need. It was screaming, drowning out everything and making his bones vibrate under his skin. Making his skin feel as if it might slough off at the slightest touch. Making his fucking hair stand on end.

And oh god he hated. He hated himself. Ian and Padraic and all of those bastards in that fucking barn. He hated James Moriarty and Sebastien bloody Moran. Everybody who was walking around without this goddamned fucking need permeating every cell of their fucking bodies. He didn't want to cry but another wave of muscle spasms seized him and he moaned in agony.

She came rushing into the room, bringing with her the scent of lavender and citrus and clean skin and laundry soap. She reached him with the dust bin just in time for him to empty his stomach into it.

"Go away," he said when he finished.

"Sherlock I need to change your sheets again. Remember how much better you felt the last time?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm dying. It's worse. It's going to kill me this time."

"It's not going to kill you, Sherlock. Now I need you to get out of bed and put on new pants and a shirt. I need to change your sheets."

The floor was all he could manage, which was fine, because it was cool and he was burning up again. Somehow he got the new clothes on and got back in bed when she was finished with the sheets. The duvet had been tossed aside long ago. It hurt to have it on top of him even when he was freezing. He got a moment's pleasure from the cool dry sheets against his skin before the aching started anew.

"Sherlock, when you were in rehab before, did they give you anything to help with this?"

"Clonidine. Valium. Doesn't matter."

"Sherlock—"

"No! Don't you dare go over there. They won't help you and they'll fucking laugh at you for even trying. They can see me right now. They're probably all laughing." He curled up in the fetal position as a stomach cramp hit. He needed to get her out of there before he said something stupid and hurt her. "Leave me alone, please just leave me alone, Molly."

She sat on the bed. He could hear her inner conflict as surely as if she were speaking aloud. She was unconsciously stroking the curve of her belly. He wondered if she was soothing the child, or herself.

"Don't be afraid to need me." She kissed his sweaty forehead and walked out, leaving the door open.

He slept for a while. Sort of. His dreams were disjointed and terror filled. The worst one found him in a crowded city square, and every time he found someone he thought he knew, they turned around to reveal faces that had no features. He had just awoken when Molly came in.

"You look a tiny bit better," she said, feeling his forehead. "Martha's coming. I lost track of time and just remembered it's her day to come. Do you want me to send her away?"

"No. What did you tell her while I was gone, anyway?"

"That you were away on business. Do you want her to take a look at you? We could just say you're sick."

"Why would I want her to take a look at me? I know what's wrong. She can't get me anything that would actually help, and I'm sure she knows the signs of withdrawal anyway and Moriarty would have to give her more shock treatment or whatever to make her forget so tell her I'm jetlagged or something and don't come back in here unless I'm screaming bloody murder."

He curled up, trying to make himself as small as possible, to escape the vice that was squeezing his back and legs and arms. Maybe if he went in the same direction it seemed to be squeezing, it wouldn't hurt as badly. When he was able to open his eyes again, she was gone.

He woke up from another bout of sleep and could hear both women downstairs. Martha's voice carried more than Molly's, her laughter grating. He wanted to yell down for her to shut the fuck up, but he knew it would only bring her up here to scold him, and she would see. And even if she didn't know why he was sick, he looked bad enough that she might insist on a hospital. Which, as he told Molly, could cause further complications for the unwitting woman. So best just to put his damp pillow over his head and wait it out.

He expected Molly to come up when the midwife left, but soon realized she'd taken him at his word about leaving him alone. Good. Maybe she was finally learning that he was poisonous and rotten at the core and nothing would ever save him. And now she was tied to him forever and if he couldn't get them out of this, she wouldn't even have anything to show for it. No brilliant little baby to love—and she did love it already—just tied to him forever in loss and regret.

He sat up, hoping a change in position would ease some of his pain, but it only made his stomach heave. He rocked back and forth and tried to breathe, tried to tell himself this was the worst of it. Day three was always the worst. It would be terrible for another two or three days but it wouldn't be as bad as this again. He had done it without medical assistance before, to prove to his brother he could. But he had also been twenty one years old and still thought himself invincible.

Now he was wrecked. Run down mentally by his weeks of captivity and the strain of what had happened to Molly. Run down physically by being drug around the world in a haze of debauchery for six weeks. He almost wished that Moriarty had brainwashed him, too. But even if it were possible—and he doubted it—Moriarty wanted Sherlock to experience it all. Every lash of the whip and turn of the screw.

Sherlock couldn't bear to be alone another second. Even though he knew he was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, and he should leave her alone, he needed her. It didn't matter if she only came in and sat in the chair and read he couldn't bear to be alone with himself anymore. So he called her name, and she came running, like always.

She lay down beside him, wrapping her little body around his as best she could with her growing belly between them. She held him, telling him about all the cases he'd solved that she could remember, and how grateful the families and friends were, until finally he drifted into a dreamless sleep.


	38. Chapter 38

"Should we?" Molly said nervously. "I mean, I know it'd be kind of weird but we may as well."

"It doesn't matter to me. Never has," he shrugged, returning to his book.

"But it won't be as much fun if you don't want to do it, and I mean, we really need something fun to do."

"I'm sure I'll be fine once we get started, I just don't really care one way or the other right now."

"You'll have to help me, though. I saw the perfect one on our walk yesterday. Just the right height and not too scraggly but not so lush we can't put ornaments on it."

"And what exactly are we going to use for ornaments, once I slaughter this tree for you and drag it back to the house?"

"There's got to be something here. But even if there isn't we can make snowflakes and garlands. Cranberries and popcorn and paper chains."

Molly stood at the window, peeking out of the curtain as raindrops started splattering against the glass. Sherlock observed her silhouette, and noted how her posture had changed, the curve of her back exaggerated in proportion to the outward curve of her abdomen. From behind, she looked much the same.

On their walk yesterday, he'd noticed that her stride had changed as well. It wasn't exactly a waddle, but it definitely lacked her usual quick efficiency. She had more stamina than he did, however, at least for now. He had been back for nine days. His body still ached dully and he had to be hyper diligent about controlling his temper, but it was better every day, the wanting had dulled from a roar to a low throbbing like heavy bass heard from blocks away.

"I know it's silly," she continued. "But isn't it weird, how we try to normalize things? Even in horrible circumstances. Like soldiers celebrating holidays in the trenches. Or like Anne Frank, how she still found things to be joyful about. Of course this is more Flowers in the Attic than Anne Frank but—I don't know. Did you ever read the Little House books?"

"It's hard to say, though I'm vaguely aware of what they are."

"I was obsessed with them, even more than I was with the Narnia books. It was like there was this magical place that actually existed at one time. Can you imagine? Areas larger than all of England with nothing but waving grass and blue sky."

"Sounds tedius."

"You'd love it. Lack of stimuli, good for brain work. Anyway, Laura's family never had much. They weren't destitute, and the only time they ever were in danger of starving was during the long winter, but they were still very poor. But no matter what horrible things happened, Christmas was always beautiful. There was one in particular when they didn't think that Father Christmas would even come, but he did. And all they got for Christmas was a peppermint stick and a new tin cup and a shiny new penny and Laura felt like her heart was going to burst because she felt like it was too much. And I thought it was the most beautiful Christmas story ever, which would have gotten me sent straight to confession if I'd ever told my mother, but I can't help it. So I've always tried to find some way to make Christmas a little bit joyous, even if I'm waist high in suicides or bus accident victims. So what I'm saying, Sherlock Holmes, is that I really want a bloody Christmas tree even if it's totally insane."

He hadn't told her everything that happened while he was away. What he had told her came out in small chunks in the blazingly fast monotone in which he explained his deductions. Meant only to be informative, no emotion conveyed. Always in the dark. He didn't want to see how it hurt her to know.

What he didn't tell her was how much he fantasized about breaking Sébastien's body, bone by bone, sinew by sinew. How he imagined it so vividly that he could feel the fine bones of his face crumbling under his fist and the ache in his own knuckles as he pummeled him.

He didn't tell her how much he wanted to strangle the life out of Moriarty, how sweet the struggle would be and how cathartic to feel the bastard's hands slacken and his body relax with his final breath.

Because even though she claimed she wanted to kill them, he knew she had not really thought about what that meant, no matter how acquainted she was with the frailties of the human body.

"Sherlock?" Her soft voice brought him back.

"Sorry," he said. "Yes. The tree. We just need a saw. And a stand. When it stops raining."

"You'll probably have to go over and ask for a saw."

"Yes," he said, making no move to do so. He was comfortable and drowsy, which was a rare combination lately. She came over to lie on the sofa with him, and he moved over so that she could wedge herself between him and the sofa's back. Soon there wouldn't be room on the sofa for both of them like this, which saddened him. Surprisingly, the tighter she held him, the calmer he felt.

"You know what tree I'm talking about?"

"Yes. I'm certain I know every rock and tree on this place now. With at least fifteen more weeks here, I'll probably be able to give them all pet names."

"You know, there's a good chance that the people who originally built this house lived their whole lives within twenty miles of here. Maybe less if there was a closer village at some point."

"Yes, but they also only lived thirty five years."

"What do you think he's going to do with us? After—after the baby?"

"I don't know, but if you're worried he'll kill us, I don't think so."

"I almost wish he would."

"No you don't. Because then there'd be no one to fight for it."

"I don't know how I'm going to be able to bear it," she whispered.

"The same way you've borne everything else."

"It'll be worse than all of that combined."

"You were just talking about how resilient people are. It's true; we're absolute lunatics that way.

"We haven't seen Jim in months. I just know he's going to show up on Christmas or something. I wonder what he's been doing all this time?"

"Decorating a nursery?"

She started to get up. She looked as though he had hit her.

"I'm sorry. That was awful," he said, pulling her to him again. It took some coaxing, but she settled against him.

"Tell me about Christmas at your house. Lots of cousins, right? Crackers and five different puddings and your Dad reading A Christmas Carol and doing all the voices?"

"Not far off," she said. "He usually preferred The Night Before Christmas, if he could get away with it. Mum always wanted him to read about the birth of Christ from Matthew and Luke but she rarely got her way. What was it like at your house?"

"Not—like that." He didn't want to elaborate and regretted opening the door up for that question. She didn't push him.

"Sherlock," she whispered.

"Yes?"

She took his hand and placed it flat on the side of her belly. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. He needed to look at this from a purely scientific perspective. He was merely observing. He sighed and was about to move his hand after not feeling anything for thirty seconds when it happened. It wasn't percussive, like a kick or punch. It was more like a wave under her skin. He looked at her in alarm.

"Just rolling over" she said.

He left his hand where it was and finally felt two little kicks, like someone gently thumping his palm. His fascination completely outweighed his fear. This was incredible. He had never paid much attention to pregnant women before, unless it had to do with a case. Just like with sex, knowing the anatomy and physiology of it hadn't truly prepared him for the reality of it. He couldn't say that he felt anything akin to love for this child, but he did suddenly feel an intense surge of possessiveness and wonder.

"Everything's going to be okay," he said. He didn't know if he was saying it to her, the baby, or himself.


	39. Chapter 39

Sentiment. There was nothing more inextricably tied to sentiment than this particular holiday. Sentiment and its kissing cousin nostalgia. It seemed the Americans were intent on continuously reliving some sort of New England Baby Boomer childhood holiday, while in England, they went back even further, and tried desperately to recapture the spirit of Dickens.

This song they were listening to (they had unearthed a record player and a box of 45s in their hunt for Christmas paraphernalia) made him miss London at Christmas.

He wasn't being sentimental, even though Molly had him lying beside her with their heads and shoulders under the tree, gazing up through the branches, while Dean Martin sang "Silver Bells" and fairy lights twinkled above them. What he missed was how fascinating it was to observe people during the holidays. He never felt more like an alien anthropologist than he did when roaming the streets of London at Christmas time. People becoming perfectly willing to give money to the same beggars they ignored the other eleven months of the year. People willing to spend time with friends and family they didn't even like, much less had anything in common with, for the sake of—what? He never understood it. And there was the other side of it. Normally innocuous people driven to violence in shops over gadgets their children would forget about within a week. The increased murders and suicides. The lonely becoming lonelier.

Then there were the people who would show up on Christmas to help you through something that might be difficult, even though you were an utter twat to them only hours before.

But those people are the kind who would do that for you any day of the year.

She had forgiven him long ago. He had thanked her for the present he had so cluelessly mocked (a honey bee, perfectly preserved in amber.) They had never talked about it again.

He had never truly felt as though he had earned her forgiveness, however. He felt he owed her a nice Christmas, at least as nice as they could manage in their circumstances. And it was somewhat pleasant, the smell of the tree (he could even disregard the very unpleasant outing with Padraic to retrieve it) the light reflecting off of the glass ornaments, and the way the tree seemed to reach up for miles. It made him think of the little tunnel created by the juniper bushes that lined the east wall of the gate house at his childhood home. He would hide there and read or think or work out secret codes. He hung prisms inside and had worked out a method of telling time by them.

Ugh. Nostalgia.

"Ugh," Molly said, turning on her side. "I can't lie on my back for very long anymore without getting dizzy."

"The weight of your uterus on the vena cava, decreasing blood flow to your heart."

"Erm, yes, I know that. Expert in anatomy and physiology, remember?"

"Then why did you do it?"

"Because the tree is so pretty and I'm an idiot."

He adjusted an ornament so that the light nearest it hit it at the most flattering angle. "Let's see about those biscuits," he said.

He helped her to her feet and she leaned into him slightly, still a bit lightheaded. He held her close longer than necessary, and perhaps a bit tighter than necessary. It was good to stand there a moment with her, holding each other not because one or the other was hurt or sad but only...because. When he pulled away, she looked up at him with the slightest smile and a furrowed brow.

"What?" he said.

"Nothing."

They went to the kitchen to check that the shortbread Sherlock had made and the gingerbread men Molly had baked were cooled. It had been awkward earlier when Sherlock had to explain to Molly that her alternate personality had been the one to teach him to bake. He could see her moving the information about in her head, trying to piece it together with other information. Then she shrugged and started looking for the biscuit cutters. Obviously it was not something she wanted to think about on Christmas Eve.

Molly put the shortbread in a tin, after helping herself to three, and got out the colored icing she'd made earlier. They'd halved the recipe for the gingerbread men but still made far too many, even with Molly's increased appetite.

"They'll keep until Martha comes. She'll definitely want some," she said.

"Yeah and when Moriarty descends back in to give us a prezzy or whatever he's planning I'm sure he'll insist on tea and biscuits. And I'm sure he'll appreciate this particular kind."

"You say descend like he's going to rappel in here on a grappling line or whatever it's called."

"No, I'm sure he'll skydive."

"I think hang gliding's more his style."

"Nah, he'll just buy a replica Batmobile." Sherlock said.

Molly started giggling and clamped her hand over her mouth. "Come on, we've got to get these decorated before midnight."

"Molly, I'm perfectly willing to participate in almost any Christmas ritual you wish, but you're on your own when it comes to leaving out treats for Father Christmas."

"And carrots for the reindeer. Just help me decorate, and I promise I won't put the plate out until after you've gone to bed."

"If we do stay up until midnight, does that mean we'll exchange gifts then?"

"That usually only works when you've got more than one gift to give. And we said only one."

"Oh all right."

She started piping little icing faces and clothing onto the biscuits, and Sherlock followed behind adding candies and nonpareils and sprinkles to the outfits.

"You've done this before, and not with Maggie."

"I was a child once, you know. I didn't burst from the womb wearing a suit and embarrassing the Met for their incompetency. We had a very nice cook who didn't mind my being underfoot. And I liked sweets."

When they finished, two dozen gingerbread people were laid out in rows on the worktop, each one unique.

"Do you think he'll come tomorrow?" Molly said.

"Moriarty?"

"No, Father Christmas. Of course Moriarty."

"Perhaps. I'm refusing to dwell on it and you should, too. How can you worry about such things when you know that you can eat all the gingerbread people and shortbread you want with no one telling you to stop? That's truly the best thing about being a grownup, you know."

She hugged him, arms tightly around his waist and her face in his chest. He thought surely the fibers of his jumper would make her sneeze. She mumbled something.

"What was that?" he said, taking her shoulders pushing her back so he could see her face. Her eyes were shiny.

"Just, thank you, for making the best of it. I know it's hard for you."

"Not quite as excruciating as I thought it would be," he said. "Now you'd better get that plate ready. I'll see you upstairs." He turned to walk away but stopped and faced her again. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he said, leaning in and kissing the corner of her mouth.

Sherlock was determined to wake before her, so he really didn't sleep. He lay beside her and read until she complained about the light, then dozed, occasionally placing his hands on her belly. The baby was always more active at night, which made Molly's sleep less restful. It was becoming harder and harder for her to find a comfortable position. He had found, though, that for whatever reason, the baby would still its squirming if he put his face right next to Molly's belly and talked to it. It didn't matter what he said. He could recite the Magna Charta or talk about one of his cases or rattle off random numbers, so it obviously had to do with the frequency of his voice. He didn't know if it put the baby to sleep or made it pay attention. Whatever the reason, he was usually able to lull it enough for Molly to get a bit of uninterrupted rest.

He got up as soon as the sky became more grey than black, slipping on his dressing gown and quietly heading downstairs. What he'd made for Molly for Christmas was a composition, but he had never played it, composing entirely in his head so she wouldn't hear any of it beforehand. He warmed up with O Holy Night, which he hoped would rouse her, then segued into her piece. He smiled when he realized that the notes did fit together as surely as he had heard them in his head. He hoped they would convey his gratitude, his respect, and how much she really and truly counted. When he'd pulled the last note out of the violin, he turned to see her standing at the bottom of the stairs, crying. He was bad at this. Were those the happy kind or the "I'm going to murder your family in your sleep" kind?

She answered his unspoken question by rushing to him, pulling him to her by the shirt, and giving him a hard kiss on the mouth. It was over almost before it started, and she looked shocked with herself, but she didn't stammer or apologize. "Thank you," she said and went to the tree. There was manila envelope under it, tied with twine with a sprig of holly tucked where the string intersected. She gave it to him shyly. He opened it and pulled out a pencil rendering of the sitting room at Baker Street. He'd known Molly could draw from having seen her doodles on paperwork and in her journal. He even knew that she could draw any muscle or bone in the human body from memory. But he had never seen her do anything like this. She really did have an extraordinary memory; almost every detail was in place, though she had been to his flat less than half a dozen times.

And there, sitting in their respective chairs in the middle of the flat, were John and Sherlock.

"This is—extraordinary. Thank you, Molly." He cursed himself for the extreme formality but he was afraid that things might spin out of his control if he didn't hold everything in very tightly and move very carefully.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock," she said. "Now let's go bite the heads off some gingerbread men."


	40. Chapter 40

"I followed the wren three miles or more,

Three miles or more three miles or more.

I followed the wren three miles or more,

At six o'clock in the morning.

I have a little box under me arm,

Under me arm under me arm.

I have a little box under me arm,

A penny or tuppence would do it no harm…"

Sherlock woke from the most restful sleep he'd managed in months to the sound of lilting Irish voices and fiddles and flutes and—was that really a bodhran? He stumbled to the window and looked out at the barn. There was a veritable party, complete with a bonfire and a keg and, yes, those were women.

It was barely sunrise and couldn't be much above freezing out. Moriarty seemed to celebrate Boxing Day in the old tradition of giving one's servants presents. Though often it was just fabric to make a uniform for the coming year, not alcohol and prostitutes.

Next he noticed a large moving lorry parked outside the barn, with several men (resentfully sober, it seemed) were unloading boxes of various size.

"What the fuck is going on?" Molly said. She was sitting up in bed looking thoroughly pissed at her sleep being interrupted. She had tossed and turned forever last night, the baby having positioned itself on her sciatic nerve, causing pain in her right leg. So she couldn't lay on her back or her right side, and was only comfortable for short periods on her left side.

She shuffled over to the window.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she said. She went to the dresser and pulled a heavy jumper on over her nightgown, followed by a pair of leggings under it.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to tell those bastards to shut the fuck up," she said.

"Molly—"

"Are you coming with me or do I have to do it by myself?"

He sighed and went to his room, which was only used for storing his clothing even though her nightmares had become less frequent and there was really no real need to sleep in her room. But that was something to be contemplated another day. He found a jumper and came out just in time to see her stamping down the stairs. He followed her and almost ran smack into her back when she froze at the foot of the stairs.

"Hello, darlings!" said Moriarty, seated by the fire eating shortbread. "So sorry I'm late. I really would have come yesterday but there was a blizzard in Aspen and I just couldn't convince my pilot to take off in it."

Sherlock surveyed the rest of the sitting room.

"Oh, your friend isn't here. Well, he's not in the house. He's making sure your presents get unloaded safely. Probably pouting. I let him spend Christmas in Louisiana and now I've dragged him back north."

"Touching," Sherlock said. "What's this about presents?"

"Greedy, are we? Molly's desperate little token of affection still not good enough?"

Sherlock managed to react with merely a slight inhalation and a flare of the nostrils, but he pictured himself dragging the neatly dressed little monster from his chair, dragging him up the stairs by his necktie and throwing him back down them. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

"Just get it over with, Jim. I'm tired and I really need sleep. Don't you think it's best?" Molly had maneuvered herself between the two men. Her voice was strong, but she was trembling.

Moriarty's eyes flicked to Molly's belly and back to Sherlock.

"Looks like I've unleashed a lioness, haven't I? Well, you're both somewhat dressed so grab your coats and boots and come along."

They trudged to the barn, passing through the celebration. The men gave a rousing cheer for their boss as he passed, which he dismissed with a wave.

"They're so easy to please," he said, removing his gloves as they entered the barracks. As they passed the doors to the guards' quarters, Sherlock glanced in. It was unchanged. The last two doors on the right side of the long hallway were the destination for all of the packages unloaded from the truck.

Some of them had already been unboxed, and Sherlock could tell immediately from their contents what Moriarty's "gift" to them was.

"A birthing suite," Molly said.

"State of the art," Moriarty said, proudly. "You didn't really think I would let my little bundle of joy be born in a farmhouse like some free range hippie spawn, did you?"

"I hadn't really thought that far ahead," admitted Sherlock.

They stood out of the way as a hospital bed was rolled in, joining the warmer and heart rate monitor that had already been unwrapped.

"Supplies and medications for almost every eventuality. And your doctor and obstetrics nurse are already on call."

"What about Martha? And am I going to get to meet this doctor beforehand?" Molly said, her voice strained.

"Is that really necessary, Molly? All the doctor does is catch, unless something else goes wrong. You have a very low risk pregnancy, according to your midwife and your lab work. And yes, Martha is on call, too."

Molly visibly relaxed. It was actually a relief, knowing that she wouldn't be delivering in primitive conditions.

"I suppose an anesthesiologist is too much to ask for?" Sherlock said.

"I don't want an epidural," Molly said.

Oh. Something they hadn't discussed since they assumed she wouldn't have a choice. He could understand her reluctance to receive any drugs from Moriarty's hands—directly or indirectly- especially not something that would tap directly into her spine.

"Well, it seems you have a lot to discuss. I need to have some words with the boys on duty today. Seems they're a bit resentful about the party for the boys that had to work Christmas." He shook his head and wandered off, leaving them with a newly arrived Sébastien, who merely nodded at Sherlock and took up a silent post in the corner, supervising the workers and the captives.

"This is good, right?" Molly said. "Supremely creepy, but good. God, Martha's got to think we're all mental. "

"I'm sure she's seen worse. " He turned to Sébastien. "Do you trust us to make our own way back? I think we've seen enough."

Sébastien shrugged and ordered one of the guards to accompany them to the house.

"I guess that's a no. Au revoir, Sébastien."

"How's that arm doing, Sherlock?" He asked.

"Could be better."

As soon as Sherlock shut the front door Molly let out a cry of frustration.

"Molly, what's wrong?"

"What's fucking right, Sherlock? All of this, all of it," she said, indicating her belly, "for what? Just so that lunatic can—no. No. "

He moved to hold her and she stepped away.

"Nope, none of that right now. Not enough. Not playing house right now. You know, my mother would give her life for me. I know she would, so why wouldn't she for her grandchild? I can't do it, Sherlock. I can't. Get us out of this, I don't care how."

"Molly, think about what you're saying."

"He can't have it!"

He went to her again, but instead of trying to hold her, he grasped her by the shoulders.

"Look at me," he said, crouching so he was at eye level with her. "It's not the answer. You know I've thought about it. I'm a selfish bastard. But even if I could get us out of here alive, and even if we think some of the people we care about would sacrifice themselves for a child, we don't really know and we can't make that choice for them." She nodded.

"I know," she said, wiping her eyes with his jumper. She still didn't let him hug her, but she did give him a kiss on the cheek before pulling away.

Moriarty stopped in before leaving to give them instructions for what to do when Molly went into labor. It was still quite early, but the baby had a very good chance of survival if all available interventions were taken in the eventuality she did go early.

When Sébastien and he finally left, Molly sank onto the sofa. "He kept looking at my belly. I was so afraid he was going to touch it." She shook her head and shuddered. "Okay, now that all the noise has died down I'm going to try to get some sleep. Play for me?"

"Any requests?"

"Whatever," she said. "I dunno—Braham's Lullaby?"

He picked up the instrument and when he heard her door close, he started to play, studiously ignoring the stinging in his own eyes.

**A/N The Wren Song is a traditional Irish folk song associated with St. Stephens Day, which is often celebrated on December 26th. **


	41. Chapter 41

The day that Molly went into labor began with the same tedium that had marked their lives for several months. Both of them were frantic for stimulation, irritable and trying desperately—and mostly failing—to not take it out on each other.

Sherlock went for long walks occasionally, but as Molly became less able to go with him, and he became more reluctant to leave her alone, even these stopped. It wasn't fair, anyway. He could temporarily escape the confines of the house but she wasn't able to escape the confines of her body.

They had observed each of their birthdays in the same manner they had Christmas, but it felt forced, just another reminder of time moving inexorably toward the end of one nightmare and the beginning of another.

Molly had told him tearfully one night in February how guilty she felt when she wished it were all over because she would have her body back and there was a chance they would be able to leave. He hadn't known what to do other than hold her. He didn't tell her that his thoughts had sometimes run in the same direction.

She went into labor five days before her due date. Martha had been to see them the day before. The baby was head down and had dropped, but Molly's cervix was barely dilated. The midwife warned her that new mothers were sometimes up to two weeks overdue, and to be prepared for a longer wait. Molly had put her head on Sherlock's shoulder and wept.

She kept her early contractions to herself, not wanting to get anyone's hopes up, but Sherlock sensed something was going on by the way she moved more slowly, and would go very still for long moments.

He asked if she was in labor.

"No, you heard Martha yesterday, it could be two weeks."

"How the hell could it take that much longer? You're enormous."

"Oh you can fuck right off."

"Molly, you're 39 weeks pregnant. Of course you've gained weight. Look at it objectively. All I'm saying is that it's obviously a very large baby already and if you have to wait another two weeks I'm not sure how—"

"You're not fucking helping so shut the fuck up!"

He retreated to the kitchen to make her tea.

When the contractions became strong enough that she couldn't speak through them, she told him that maybe she was in labor and to start timing them. They were still several minutes apart, but regular. He went to the barn to tell Padraic to put in the necessary calls.

Martha arrived first, and after confirming that it was, indeed, the real thing, they got Molly to the barn. She insisted on walking, even though Padraic had said he would come over with the car.

"It feels better if I'm standing when they hit," she said, as she recovered from a contraction that had bent her double.

The main room of the suite was decorated like a hotel room, with muted colors and generic art on the wall. Molly told him that was the current trend, so Moriarty had obviously done his research. The hospital bed, an arm chair, and monitors were in the main room, with a separate room containing supplies, a warmer, a baby bath and a hospital style bassinette. There was an en suite off of the main room.

The nurse, a tiny redhead named Siobhan, arrived not long after they were settled in the suite.

"Doctor'll be here in a few hours," she said as she scrubbed her hands at the sink in the corner. "Wanted to finish his golf game since it's the first day he's been able to get out this spring. Typical." She looked over Sherlock briefly, her eyes telegraphing that she didn't think much of what she saw. His hair had grown rather shaggy again and he hadn't shaved in several days, but he had the feeling she wouldn't have thought any better of him if he were straight from the barber and dressed in one of his suits.

"You the father, then?" she said.

"It would appear so."

"Well, wash up and put on some scrubs for Christ's sake." She turned to Molly and her demeanor changed instantly. "I'm going to start your IV, darlin'. Are you right or left handed?"

"Right," Molly said. "I'll still be able to walk around, though?"

"Of course, we've got you a rolling stand and I'm sure he'll make himself slightly useful and help you," she said, jerking her head at Sherlock. "When's the last time you checked her?" she asked Martha.

"Half an hour ago. Five centimeters."

"Good. Hopefully we'll be over five by the time the doctor gets here, so we don't have to hear him complain."

After starting Molly's IV, Siobhan went to the other room to consult with Martha. Sherlock deemed it safe to talk to Molly, who was sitting on the bed.

"She's terrifying."

"She's also fantastic at her job," Molly managed right before another contraction hit. Only three minutes had passed since the last one. Molly grabbed his hand and squeezed as she tried to breathe through it.

"What does that feel like?" he asked, after it passed, as he shook the circulation back into his hand.

"Imagine there's a vice around your body, right below your rips, and every few minutes someone tightens the vice and squeezes it down your torso like you're a fucking tube of toothpaste."

"Oh."

Sherlock had not seen many movies or television shows that featured childbirth, but the ones he had suffered through always involved a lot of dramatics and a frenzy of activity followed by the woman pushing for approximately thirty seconds before the child was delivered.

This, however, was a lot of waiting. It was a lot of watching Molly suffer. It was a lot of walking next to her as she paced the room and supporting her when she had a contraction. Soon she grew too exhausted to walk so he offered his hand for her to squeeze. She did hurl a few expletives at him, something that featured heavily in movies, but mostly she whimpered.

"Molly dear," Marthat said. "The nurse does have some Stadol, and the doctor has approved administering it, if it gets too bad. I think you'll be fine without it but I just want to give you the choice."

"No," she said.

Martha patted her on the hand. "Just let us know if you change your mind."

Molly was more terrified of being drugged than she ever would be of the pain. Sherlock knew she wouldn't change her mind.

For the first time in his life, he wished there were a way to transfer someone's pain onto his own body.

After a few hours that were ticked off by the ever increasing frequency and strength of Molly's contractions, the doctor finally arrived. He introduced himself as Dr. Abernathy, scrubbed his hands and put on gloves. He was a tall man with salt and pepper hair. He was still in his golf clothes. Sherlock was amazed at how casually he applied lubricant to his gloves, and checked Molly's progress, all while getting updates from Siobhan and Martha. This all occurred within three minutes of his arrival.

"Oh good, we're at nine. Nice timing, lass," he said, replacing Molly's sheet and patting her on the knee. He left the room, calling over his shoulder at Martha and Siobhan to come get him from the kitchen when she felt ready to push.

"He knows his way around," Molly whispered. The other women were in the second room, making sure everything was in order for delivery.

"One of Moriarty's men, of course. Still not certain about Siobhan."

Molly shuddered. "I hope that if she's not, she's okay after this. And Martha."

"Me too," he said.

Sherlock thought things would progress quickly once Dr. Abernathy gave Molly the go ahead to push, but it lasted long enough that their care providers started to exchange glances and whisper things about suction and forceps. Martha kept them updated, telling them that the baby was quite large and they might have to assist it a little bit, but that otherwise everything was alright.

Before that became necessary, however, Molly was able to give a mighty push, and the baby crowned. Martha asked Sherlock if he'd like to watch the rest of the delivery but he declined, his scientific mind not in the least bit curious at this point. He stayed at the head of the bed with Molly. With another push and a wail from Molly, the head was delivered. Molly was breathing heavily but she relaxed instantly.

"Siobhan is just going to clear the airways and make sure the cord is out of the way, and we're almost done," Martha said.

With one final push, the baby was free, its cries filling the room.

"It's a girl," said Siobhan. Molly started to cry. Sherlock couldn't look anywhere but at the baby, though it was difficult comprehending what he was seeing. They laid her on Molly's tummy and Siobhan asked if he would like to help cut the cord.

"Erm, no I think. I think you'd better." The nurse gave him a withering look for his uselessness and went about the business herself. Finished, she bundled up the baby and handed her to Sherlock.

"We've got to deliver the placenta. You two can get acquainted."

He looked at the baby's face.

Sherlock Holmes had spent most of his life building a fortress around his heart. Some bricks had been shaped by things done and said to him personally, while others were formed from the myriad ways he had encountered in which people could inflict harm on one another, often in the name of love. Over the last five years, he had allowed certain people to chip away at this citadel, creating tiny fissures in brick and mortar, sometimes holes big enough to slip a helping hand through.

Then, on a dreary night in March, somewhere in Ireland, in the middle of a nightmare, he was handed a red faced, screaming baby, covered in goo, and there came the whistling of an ascending bomb, right before the walls came crashing down.


	42. Chapter 42

There was still a lot of fuss around Molly, but Sherlock took the baby over and put her in her mother's arms. She smiled and stroked the baby's head.

"Look at all that hair," she said. She kissed her on the forehead, tears dropping into the baby's hair.

With no warning, Molly's heart rate monitor started beeping rapidly. Sherlock looked over to it, then back at Molly. She was dreadfully pale and had started to lose her grip on the baby. He scooped the child out of her arms and looked to the nurse.

"She's hemorrhaging," the nurse said calmly to the physician, who swooped over and said something about starting fundal massage and Pitocin while the nurse started doing something with Molly's IV. Martha grabbed Sherlock by the arm.

"Come in here, we'll get the wee one cleaned up and checked out."

"Molly?" he said. He had just noticed the alarming amount of blood that soaked the end of the bed.

"Stay with her, don't let her out of your sight," Molly said. Her eyes rolled back and she passed out.

Martha all but dragged him into the adjoining room and closed the door.

"They're doing exactly what they're supposed to do. Now let's focus on the bairn, okay?"

"What's happening?" He had read so many books about pregnancy and infant rearing but realized that there were some pretty large gaps when it came to the birth itself, including things that could go wrong.

"When the placenta separated, her uterus didn't contract quickly or strongly enough to close off the vessels where it was attached, so she's bleeding a lot more than she should. The doctor will massage her uterus and they'll give her Pitocin to aid contractions. She may need a blood transfusion afterwards, too."

"Will she—can she die?"

Martha was focusing on the baby, going through a series of tests, including weighing and measuring her. She didn't look at him when she answered.

"Some do. But not nearly as many as used to, even a decade ago."

He could hear Molly's heart monitor through the closed door. It was still alarmingly fast, but at least it was still going.

"She's doing beautifully," Martha said, and Sherlock turned his attention back to the baby. Her face was far less red, and Martha had wiped most of the vernix from her skin before re-swaddling her and putting a little cap on her head.

"I always wait to give them a bath. It's just too much for them after the day they've had, and it's better for their skin."

She handed her back to Sherlock. He looked down at her face and she stared up at him serenely.

"Almost nine pounds. And she's bonnie. I know she doesn't look like much now; they never do, except some of the C-section ones. But I've seen enough to know. She'll be a looker. Not surprising considering the parents. And she'll never be wanting for a head of hair, that's for sure."

Through everything, he had never thought that Molly might not survive childbirth. It seemed such a foreign concept, something for the Victorian era. Other than the severe sickness at the beginning, her pregnancy had been text book. If she died—no. He stuffed the idea aside violently and focused on the baby's face.

Through his reverie, Sherlock registered that Molly's heart rate had returned to normal. He looked toward the door.

"I'll just go check, you wait here," Martha said.

A few minutes later, Siobhan came in.

"She's made it through, the bleeding's stopped," said the nurse. "I've got a transfusion started. She'll be dead tired for a bit longer than new mums usually are, but everything else looks fine. This happens sometimes with big babies and small mums."

Sherlock hurried back into the room. Molly's linens had been changed and she was tucked into the bed tightly. She looked to be sleeping, but when Sherlock said her name, she opened her eyes. Her gaze landed on his face first, then to the baby. The look in her eyes was staggering. He wondered if his own held the same combination of reverence and sadness when he looked at the child.

He laid the little bundle down on Molly's chest. She could only use one arm to hold her since she now had to lines going into her left arm, so he kept his hand on the baby's back to steady her.

Tears streamed down Molly's face as she touched the baby's face and ran her fingers over her tiny ears.

"She's so beautiful."

"Of course she is."

"I can't bear it. How much I love her. I won't be able to bear it."

"Molly, you can, and you will. But we have her now for however long."

"Should we name her? We never even talked about that, I didn't want to think about it but now..."

"Yes, we definitely should. Of course."

He came up blank, not from lack of choice but because there were so many. He had never considered what a massive responsibility it was, naming a human being.

"What's your mother's name?" Molly said.

"Violet."

Molly smiled. "My mum's name is Rose."

"Well, something that serendipitous can't be ignored." He touched the baby's nose. "Pleased to meet you, Violet Rose Hooper-Holmes."

Hours later, they were alone and had seen no sign of Moriarty or any of his minions, other than a silent hatchet faced man who had brought in a trays of food. Martha slept on a folding bed in the other room. Siobhan and Dr. Abernathy had disappeared as soon as Molly was deemed out of danger.

It was quiet, the only sounds in the room the beeping of Molly's heart monitor and the occasional gurgle or whimper from the baby. Molly was sleeping. She had fought it as long as she could, holding her (their) baby and staring at her, memorizing every centimeter of her face. Finally she had slept, and for the past hour, Sherlock had been sitting on the floor, against the wall with his knees up, the baby cradled on his thighs. He stared at her, too, fascinated. She was quiet, but he knew this was normal, having read that new babies are very sleepy the first few days. Childbirth was exhausting for the baby as well as the mother. While she was awake, he had noted that her eyes were slate grey. She had a twenty five percent chance of having blue eyes, but Sherlock guessed (hoped) they would be like her mother's. If he wasn't mistaken, she did have her mother's nose. She had a lot of hair, dark and silky. He wasn't quite sure, but he thought he could see a bit of curl. What fascinated him most, however, was her little mouth. Having looked through a century and a half of family photos and several centuries of family portraits, he had never seen anyone with a mouth like his. And there it was, repeated in miniature on this (his) baby's sweet face.

He knew why Moriarty was taking his time claiming the baby. He wasn't being merciful. Molly would be destroyed no matter if Violet had been taken before she got to hold her or five years from now. No, they were given this time so that Sherlock would fall in love with the baby. And he let himself do it (pretending he ever had a choice in the matter) because he knew that the more he loved this child, the more determined he would be in getting her back.

He understood perfectly how a mother could become attached, growing a baby inside her, with a healthy dose of hormones to help with the bonding process. But how does it happen with fathers? How much of it was biological, how much of it the big eyes in the tiny face, unearthing ancient instincts to protect?

He examined one of her hands (long fingers like his, he will buy her a violin when she is three) and marveled at the tiny fingernails. Her hand reflexively wrapped around his finger, and his chest tightened so that he couldn't take in a full breath. How is it possible to love someone you don't even know so much that you would absolutely trade your life for hers? Hell, he had to admit it; at this point he would trade everyone's life for hers. And maybe that was ultimately what Moriarty wanted. For him to give it all up: his friends' lives, his life, even Molly's (he knew she would give herself up willingly) all for this little stranger whom he hadn't even known he wanted until he first heard her cry.

"Violet?"

Sherlock looked up. Molly was sitting up in bed, frightened and looking about.

"We're here," he said, standing and going over to her. He immediately handed Violet over. Molly's IV had been removed so she was able to cradle her fully. The baby opened her eyes and started fussing, opening her mouth wide and turning her face toward Molly's chest.

"Will you get Martha? I think she's hungry and I'll probably need some help."

"Molly, are you sure?"

"The colostrum. Even if I don't get to—continue, it's important." She wouldn't meet his eyes.

Sherlock woke Martha and explained what Molly needed.

"I'll wait in here. It, er, makes her nervous when I watch her do new things. She always thinks I'm going to critique her." He forced a small chuckle and a sheepish grin. The midwife patted him on the arm and went to see to Molly.

He paced the small room while he waited, fighting the exhaustion that had begun to overwhelm his body. He stared at the small bed and contemplated resting his eyes for a few moments, but Martha came in and shooed him away before he could make a decision.

"She and the baby are both naturals. Now skedaddle so I can finish my nap."

He opened the door quietly. Violet was latched to Molly's breast. A blanket covered most of her, but her hand peeked out from under, opening and closing against Molly's skin.

Molly stared off, looking utterly desolated.

Sherlock cleared his throat. She looked at him and attempted a smile, but quickly looked back down at the baby.

"You look exhausted," she said. She scooted over and patted the bed. Hesitated, but couldn't deny how much he needed to at least lie down, or how much he needed to lie next to her. He toed off his shoes and climbed into the bed. It was tight, but he did fit, lying on his side.

Violet finished eating and Molly laid her on her shoulder, patting her back gently. Molly left her there even after she burped, so that Sherlock could better see her. She blinked at him, then yawned and closed her eyes.

"Already bored, I see," he said.

"Hush and get some sleep," said Molly. He nodded and was out within seconds.


	43. Chapter 43

It happened much the way Sherlock expected. Martha left them soon after Molly nursed Violet for a second time, making sure that the first time hadn't been a fluke. The two women parted tearfully, and Sherlock returned Martha's hug genuinely.

He was on guard as soon as the midwife shut the door.

Molly was still physically weak and slept. Sherlock sat in the armchair with Violet asleep on his chest, eyes locked on the door. He talked to her, much the same way he had while she was in the womb. He told her about her mother, and himself, and his best friend John and even about her uncle Mycroft.

"Dammit, Mycroft." What the hell was his game? Did he even have one, or did Moriarty have something on him, something bigger than Bond Air, that he was holding over his head? He hadn't seen a newspaper since his jaunt with Sébastien had begun, so he had no idea what the official story was or how much coverage it had gotten. He didn't know if Moriarty had followed through with informing Mycroft of Molly's pregnancy, or if he'd found out from the evidence collected at the staged crime scenes, or if he knew at all.

It didn't matter at the moment. He couldn't expect him to come to the rescue now. If he knew where they were and it was safe to extract them, he would have.

His only choice was to get through what happened next without getting anyone killed.

A code was punched in on the lock outside, and the door eased open. Moriarty poked his head in.

"Daddy's home!" he said. He stepped into the room, followed by Sébastien, Padraic, and two other men. "Now, let's make this easy, Sherlock. You two did a very good job and I'm certain that you'll be able to make another one now that you're better acquainted. But this one's mine." He held his arms out and gestured for Sherlock to hand Violet over.

Molly had woken up at the sound of Moriarty's voice. She tried to get out of bed but sat back down immediately. Sherlock stood up and went to her.

"Still feeling weak, Molly?" said Moriarty. "I don't blame you. You really should have gotten two pints of blood, but somehow the doctor didn't communicate that to your nurse. Such a shame."

"You bastard," she said. Sherlock gave her the baby and faced Moriarty.

"This is really tedious, Sherlock. I mean, yes, we can't go around shooting in a room this small without the possibility of hitting something or someone we don't want to, but we do have other methods of persuasion. "

Padraic and Sébastien both moved their coats aside to reveal the Tasers in their holsters.

"Take me," Sherlock said. "Drag me around the world again, shoot me up, sell me to the highest bidder. I'll work for you or any of your clients. Just let them go."

Moriarty closed his dark eyes and inhaled deeply. "Oh, Sherlock. You don't know how much that pleases me. Not your offer itself, though it's mildly tempting. No, hearing you beg is so, so sweet, especially coming from such a deep wellspring of emotion. You really did fall in love with her at first glance, didn't you? Which is why I just can't take you up on your offer. Because now I'm absolutely intrigued. So hand her over and we'll be on our way."

"You'll have to kill me," said Molly, holding Violet so tightly that she started to cry.

"That would be such a waste, Molly. Because I'll take her anyway. And Sherlock won't have to watch you suffer."

Molly curled herself around the baby, kissing her on the head and sobbing. Sherlock didn't move.

"Oh for God's sake," Moriarty said, taking the Taser from Sébastien and shooting Sherlock.

It felt like being punched by at least twenty people at once while being thrown across the room. He wondered briefly how he had neglected testing this out on himself—or John—in the past.

He lay paralyzed on the floor and Sébastien leaned over him. "It didn't have to be like this, ami."

Sherlock barely felt the needle puncture his bicep. His vision faded and as he fell into blackness, Molly's cries became indistinguishable from his daughter's.

The first thing Sherlock registered when he came to was silence. He peeled himself off the floor, his head pounding,

A frisson of dread swept through his body as he also registered that the room was pitch black. He staggered to his feet and groped along the wall until he got his bearings, then lurched toward the hospital bed. He sobbed with relief when he touched her and she was still warm. The power was shut off, then. He made his way to the door and found it unlocked. He opened it a crack and looked out. There was some natural light filtering into the hall from the bunk room. Otherwise, everything was silent and dark. He opened the door wide to allow some light in and went back to Molly. He debated whether he should wake her or if he should let her sleep a little longer while he examined their situation.

Leaving her alone wasn't advisable. She would be scared if she woke up alone in the dark, and he also wasn't sure what he would find beyond their door and if he would be able to return for her.

He shook her gently and said her name. She didn't wake so he had to shake her more aggressively. She woke up as confused as he had. In the dim light he saw the exact moment she remembered what had happened. Her face crumpled and she shook her head back and forth.

"No, no, no, no, no."

"Molly, please, I need you to focus. I know it hurts but I need you to just focus for a little bit longer."

"I can't. I'm so sorry. I can't. How can you not care?"

"Molly, I do care. I do. But we've got to get out of here. I think we're alone. That they've all left. Do you think you can you walk?"

"I don't know."

"I'm going to go look around."

"No," she said, clinging to him.

"Molly, I'm almost certain that the place is completely abandoned, but I want to make sure." He found the clothes she'd been wearing when they arrived and gave them to her. "Get dressed. I promise I'll be right back."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes I can," he said. He kissed her on the forehead and ducked out the door. He stood pressed against the wall of the corridor for a full minute, listening. Nothing but his breathing and Molly's hitching sobs. The other two doors on this side of the building were closed and locked. He looked into the large room. Nothing left, not even the furnishings. He walked the perimeter, moving in and out of the shafts of sunlight coming down through the skylights. All electricity was shut off, as well as the water.

Molly was dressed and curled up on the bed when he returned. He threw his jumper back on over his t shirt and grabbed her shoes.

"Molly." She didn't respond. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. Not good. He put her shoes on her feet, picked her up, and carried her down the hallway. He pushed open the outside door cautiously, though he didn't expect to be assaulted with gunfire or any other weapon. He was certain that the entire farm was completely abandoned.

It was dusk. A brilliant orange and purple sunset painted the horizon, and the wind carried the smell of rain and wet earth. There were narcissus blooming along the path to the house.

As they approached the farmhouse, Sherlock saw that there were no longer any dressings on the windows. When he opened the door, his suspicions were confirmed. The house had been stripped of every ornament, stick of furnishing, book, and knick knack it had contained. He laid Molly on the floor. He took off his jumper again, folded it and tucked it under her head, shivering slightly in his t shirt. He quickly explored the ground floor. Every room was the same. He went upstairs. His room was stripped of its meager furnishings. So was Molly's. Even the lilac walls had been white washed. But there was one object in the room.

In the center of the floor sat a rotary dial land line phone.


	44. Chapter 44

Sherlock looked up as the CT scanner whirred around him. He had to hold still, which was absolutely not on the rather long list of things he wanted to be doing. This was the last test in a seemingly never ending series of examinations he had endured since Molly and he had been plucked from Moriarty's farm by helicopter.

He hadn't seen Molly in over twelve hours. Her physical condition had been serious; the last time he had seen her she was being given a blood transfusion and intravenous antibiotics. He had been whisked away to have his own condition assessed and hadn't been able to slip away long enough to find her. It was—disconcerting. He kept catching himself looking around expecting to find her sitting nearby.

They were at a private clinic outside of Vienna. It was necessary not only for discretion, but because things were still difficult regarding his returning to England. Mycroft was working steadily on that, but it would take some careful negotiation to ensure he wasn't arrested. Plus, there was a cover story to be constructed. Moriarty had made it impossible to simply say they had run away together because they were in danger, and the real story was too sensational. It would provide the tabloids fodder that would haunt Molly and his daughter for years.

He fought down a wave of nausea when he thought about Violet. He had to tread so carefully around his feelings, because his first instinct was to grab the nearest gun and tear the world apart looking for her. He knew that was futile. He had to be rational and methodical. It was so hard to balance love as a motivator with the rational thought that allowed one to actually get things done.

When he had been passed through the CT scanner down to his thighs, he decided it was enough.

"Are we done here? I may be in my thirties but my knees are still fine."

The radiologist looked up from her screen. "They ordered a full body scan, Mr. Holmes. I have to complete it."

Oh of course, they would be looking for any implanted tracking devices. He gritted his teeth and endured the rest of the procedure.

When the scan was finished and he was dressed, he met with his brother in a conference room. The dark wood table, leather chairs and tasteful original artwork providing the type of setting Mycroft found most desirable.

They hadn't properly spoken yet. At the farmhouse, Sherlock had stayed on the phone with Mycroft just long enough for his brother to trace the call and for Sherlock to describe their surroundings. Then he had gone downstairs. He had Molly put his jumper on and sat against the wall to wait, with her cradled in his lap.

It had been too loud in the helicopter, and on the private jet from Dublin to Vienna Sherlock had done all of the talking. Mycroft listened impassively. His icy façade had only slipped when Sherlock talked about his forced relapse and Violet's kidnapping. It would not have been noticeable to anyone but Sherlock, that slight squint and increase in tension around his mouth.

Molly had barely been able to get through telling what had happened after Sherlock was Tased and drugged. She must have thought him a monster for being able to recount everything so precisely and coldly, but it was the only way he could get through it, and he needed to focus on facts. Facts were what Mycroft needed.

"You've been keeping me distracted on purpose."

"The tests were necessary, Sherlock. You were given several doses of an unknown drug as well as a shocking amount of pharmaceutical grade heroin. You were sexually assaulted by a drug addict who may not have been as meticulous about needles as you always were. Speaking of, you'll be starting a course of antibiotics as you brought home a case of chlamydia as a souvenir from your world tour. You are also a former stimulant abuser who was hit with half a million volts of electricity yesterday. Am I missing anything?"

"What were you doing to find my daughter while I was being prodded at?"

"Interesting. I thought you might lead with why you were held captive for ten months without my rescuing you."

"You are no doubt satisfied with your reasons; my opinion on them won't matter."

"Sherlock, we have exactly the same goal. Do not let your hostility and resentment get in the way of that. Are you ready to listen?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair.

"Good," his brother continued. "I became aware of your disappearance well before the police, but long after I should have. You disappeared from surveillance soon after you left St. Bart's following your conversation with Miss Hooper. Of course, knowing your propensity for using circuitous routes in order to avoid surveillance, it wasn't immediately bothersome. We were put on alert when you never met John Watson back at St. Bart's. At that time we also discovered that our feed from Miss Hooper's flat, inside and out, had been intercepted and replaced with footage from days previous. We were first on the scene, as it was necessary to remove our cameras. The scene was obviously staged, but we let the police believe what they would as we were yet unclear of Moriarty's motivations. "

"How long had Molly been under surveillance?"

"Soon after her romantic involvement with Jim Moriarty. Unfortunately, she was never regularly monitored, only recorded. Video only. We combed all of the footage meticulously, at first suspecting that she was colluding with Moriarty, as by this point we had also seen the video of your supposedly kidnapping Molly. It became clear, however, that she was a victimas well. Unfortunately, whatever initial programming Molly was subjected to had taken place before Moriarty revealed himself and the cameras were in place. There was a repeated pattern in the footage of Molly answering phone calls and becoming completely still, not moving for the duration of the calls, even if they lasted hours, though they were usually no more than thirty minutes. When the calls ended, she went about her business as usual. Clearly she was being programmed.

"Of course, all of this reviewing of footage was time consuming, and in the meantime we had begun to search while at the same time thwarting the efforts of law enforcement to find you, as you guessed. Then I received a message from Moriarty. It was a photo of you, unconscious and bound. He said that he only needed you temporarily and that you would stay alive as long as I stayed away."

"And you just did what he said?"

"How different is it from what you did, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at his brother for a long time before telling him to go on.

"Of course, I did keep looking, as covertly as possible, with a team of the few people I can trust absolutely. And when I did get too close, Moriarty had his right hand man parade you across the globe while drugging you and making you out to be a murderer. Moran would have made you overdose in the most sordid situation imaginable if I had not backed off."

"How close were you?"

"We obtained information that a woman fitting Molly's description going by the name Maggie Driscoll had been spotted in Dublin. It was a very cold lead by then, almost four months old, but there was security camera footage and we had a positive ID from her mother."

"Maggie Driscoll?"

"Well, clearly she wouldn't have gone around using the name Moriarty, Sherlock. You had to have guessed that. "

"Of course. When she was in Dublin she left behind both her Maggie Moriarty passport and Molly's real one. I assumed it meant that she had another alias or that she hadn't left the country."

"The farm is not and has never been owned by anyone named Moriarty, and 'Maggie' never used that surname in the village of Ballymore, either. There was a Margaret Driscoll who did indeed die at sixteen along with her parents and brother, Colin, on the farm, of carbon monoxide poisoning, with ownership transferring to a relative. When Molly went to the village as Maggie, she posed as a distant cousin to the Driscoll children who had returned to restore the farmhouse. Whether Moriarty was Colin Driscoll and managed to fake his own death and take on a new identity at eighteen or if he crafted 'Maggie's' story to fit the facts of a farm he stole when he was eighteen, we have yet to determine. He is at least as brilliant as you, and I believe you could have pulled off either scenario at that age if you hadn't been otherwise occupied."

"I'm sorry that my adolescent criminal activities were so mundane. Did you know about the baby?"

"Yes. He sent an ultrasound photo shortly before the news broke that Molly's blood found on the scene in Curaçao tested positive for hCG. It was clear he planned to take the child after it was born. I hope you can understand how vital it is that we tread very carefully until we know if Moriarty intends to go underground with your child, or if he wants you to come out and play. Do you have any more questions regarding the past or can we move on to the present?"

"No. But before we make any further plans, it's imperative that I speak with Molly. "

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Yes, of course."


	45. Chapter 45

He didn't want it to be awkward. It was the last thing he wanted, but he had absolutely no idea how to interact with her in public anymore. He could never go back to the way he treated her before, but he wasn't sure if the ways they had interacted when they were held captive were appropriate. He hovered in the doorway to her room, wishing that the nurse who was taking her vitals would hurry up and leave.

She was so small. She was pale and frail looking lying in that bed. Amazing that none of the people attending her had any idea how much strength was contained in her compact form.

The nurse finally left and Sherlock moved into the room, hovering now at the foot of her bed. She looked up at him and smiled.

"You look about twelve years old right now."

"I feel it. And simultaneously I feel about eighty years old."

"Sit," she said, patting the bed beside her. He came around and perched on the edge of the bed, facing her. She winced as she pushed herself up higher on the incline of the bed.

"Are you in pain?"

She looked down. "My breasts are engorged. The nurse is going to bring me some icepacks." Her voice quavered and her eyes filled. She closed her eyes tightly and took several deep breaths. When she opened them again and spoke, her voice was strong.

"Your brother was in to talk to me."

Sherlock stiffened. He hated when Mycroft talked privately with people he knew.

"What did he say?"

"He said that his people can likely bring Maggie back out, in a controlled environment, so they can interrogate her. And that they may be able to access some of my memories from when I was being programmed."

"Yes. This particular form of brainwashing was developed by men just like him, so I imagine he's got experts on hand. Did he tell you that it might cause more psychological trauma?"

"Yes. I demanded to know all the risks. But I mostly just wanted to be prepared, because I don't care if it causes my head to explode, if it'll help us find her." This time she didn't try to stop the tears. He took her hand, holding it gingerly and running his thumb over her knuckles. He stared at the bruising where her IV lines had been. They sat like that until the nurse came back. Sherlock kissed Molly on the cheek and told her he'd be back.

He wandered back to his room, mind set on isolation and a good think. When he opened the door, John Watson was sitting in one of the chairs.

"Oh thank god," he said, rushing over and pulling the smaller man into a hug before he could get stood up all the way. His friend returned the hug, adding a few masculine pats on the back. They broke apart and shuffled about awkwardly a bit before John spoke.

"So, erm, pretty bad business I guess."

"That's putting it mildly," Sherlock said, flopping into the chair that John had just vacated. John took the other one and leaned forward.

"Sherlock, before we dive into action, I want to let you know that I never doubted you. Not for a second. I knew it was all bullshit even without Mycroft filling me in. Lestrade, too. They wouldn't let him near your case, even after he was reinstated, but he had informants and we did what we could. But we had to back off when you showed up in Curaçao. Jesus, Sherlock, did you see the papers from all of that?"

"Not yet," he said. "I'm sure my assumptions regarding the level of journalistic integrity involved are accurate."

"Like sharks, Sherlock. They hounded Molly's poor mum so much that Mycroft had her moved to a safe house."

"Does she know yet, that Molly's alive?"

"She's known the whole time, but she doesn't know yet that you've been found."

"When are they planning on telling her? They're not incredibly close from what Molly has told me, but they're far from estranged. I'm sure Molly would like to see her."

John ran his hand through his hair. "We can't have everyone you or Molly knows coming to Vienna en masse, can we? At least I had the cover of coming for a medical conference."

"Fine. Molly hasn't asked about her, anyway."

"So is there a plan?" John asked. "Mycroft's filled me in on most of it but do we know what the next step is?"

"They're going to deprogram her, but first they're going to try to access her memories and interrogate the personality that Moriarty created. Who knows how long that will take and if it will yield anything. I'm certain that anything he might have let slip around her would be deliberate and misleading. Obviously efforts are being made to detangle his web to find clues about where he might be hiding. The property where we were held is being searched thoroughly, though again, anything left behind is likely misleading. Villagers questioned. Searching for the doctor, the midwife, the nurse, and the Molly lookalike. Monitoring private jet travel as much as possible as well as commercial because of course he could just hop onto a jumbo jet and make his way to Belize."

"Did you know that the whole time he was going on as Richard Brook, giving interviews, doing television shows, even a fucking book deal, and no one could fucking touch him?"

"Well I'm sure that Richard Brook has disappeared for the long term, and none of them will wonder why they can't find him for an interview when I return."

"When will that be, and what the hell are you going to tell them?"

"A diluted version of the truth," Mycroft said from the doorway. "Good evening, John. I hope your flight was comfortable."

"Delightful. So how diluted is this version of the truth going to be?"

Mycroft shut the door before walking to the window and looking out over the mountains. "Once we deem it safe to do so, we will effectively destroy the notion that Richard Brook ever existed. The truth will come out that Moriarty was real, and so utterly obsessed with Sherlock that he wanted to destroy him. He forced Sherlock and Molly into faking her kidnapping and the subsequent events. There will be no mention of mind control or alternate personalities. And for the time being, no mention of a baby."

"You said when it's safe," John said. "What does that mean?"

"When we know if Moriarty wants Sherlock to chase him, or if he will harm Violet if he does."

"Do you really think he'll kill her?"

"No," said Sherlock. "That wouldn't give him the same satisfaction. He plans on raising her to be a criminal and using her against me in some way or another for the rest of my life. Anytime he wants me to do something, or more likely when he wants me to look the other way when he's doing something."

"We'll start working with Miss Hooper immediately. Her physical condition is stable and she's quite willing. It might be difficult without the exact drug that Moriarty used, but we have some tricks up our sleeve, and we're certain of the trigger."

"It's a fairytale, according to Moriarty," said Sherlock. "Obvious which one."

"Obvious."

"Wait," said John, as Sherlock and Mycroft started to leave. "I know it's obvious for you two, but do you mind filling the plebe in?"

"Sleeping Beauty," Sherlock said. "In the original story, the princess is raped by a nobleman while she's asleep, and is impregnated, and wakes up the mother of twins. When the nobleman's wife finds out, she has the children kidnapped and plans to kill them and feed them to him. I think it's close enough, don't you? It also happens to be her favorite Disney movie."

"Wait, so you don't know—but you do know her—" John spluttered, then gave up.

"Come, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I'm sure you'd like to speak with Molly before we put her under.

"Yes."

"You're aware that anything that Moriarty might have let slip in her presence will be assumed to be a deliberate misdirection, but we'll still pursue every lead to its end."

"Good. One thing, however. What if Sleeping Beauty isn't her programming trigger but her self-destruct trigger?"

"Well, Sherlock, you must realize that she won't literally self-destruct. She would merely become suicidal. She won't be alone for a moment. Besides, I don't think that's his game, to kill her. He said it himself, didn't he? Causing her suffering makes you suffer."


	46. Chapter 46

He was certain she could see him. Even though he was standing a foot away from the two way mirror, and the lights were dim in the observation room, when her eyes flickered to the mirror, they seemed to bore directly into his.

This was the third time they had brought her out and he still couldn't shake the feeling. Of course, she wasn't stupid. She knew he was there. But how would she know exactly where he was?

She didn't. She couldn't.

They had moved operations to a government facility within the city as soon as Molly had given the go ahead to start her treatment. Sherlock had seen little of her since his last conversation with her at the clinic. She had left ahead of him and was already in the hands of the psychiatrists when John and he arrived.

No one would confirm it, but it was obvious they were being purposefully kept apart. He had seen more of Maggie than of Molly, and then only through glass.

So far, Maggie had been unhelpful. The two personalities were clearly separate in Molly's brain. Maggie believed that Molly never existed—that she and her brother made Molly up. She insisted that she has never been pregnant and that her plan had never involved that. When confronted with the evidence of her changed body, she laughed and told them they were lunatics. She simply did not see what they saw.

They were finally going to let Sherlock speak to her. One of the psychiatrists attempted coaching him on how to handle the contact, but he ignored him. Sherlock knew what needed to be done. He left the observation room and made a detour, stopping at the canteen. Two cups of tea. Sugar for her. Milk for him.

He swallowed the bile rising in his throat and entered the room smiling. He sat the tea down on the table and kissed her on the cheek. He could practically hear the steam coming from the psychiatrist's ears, but trusted Mycroft to keep him from interfering.

She climbed into his lap as soon as he was seated, putting her arms around his neck and pouting at him.

"What took you so long?"

"They wouldn't let me see you. I've asked every day."

"Oh you could see me. I know you were back there, behind that mirror," she said.

"I meant see in the metaphoric sense. They wouldn't let me talk to you."

She smiled and ran her thumb across his lips. He thought he had prepared for this, but he was assaulted by the full force of the waves of wanting that emanated from her, and the dark energy that was so irresistible. In her mind, it had only been a week since she'd had him in her bed. That last time had been nothing special—no acrobatics or new positions—yet he recalled perfectly how she had whispered his name and asked him to love her as she buried her nails into his back.

He brought his focus back by recalling his daughter's face, her eyes blinking at him with the purest trust.

The woman on his lap moved to kiss his neck and he leaned away. "There are people watching."

"We always had people watching before," she said.

He stroked her cheek and ran his hand through her hair. "It's not the same."

"They keep telling me horrible things," she said. "Why do they make me want to believe that?"

"All they want is what you know about your brother. Then they'll let you go. You can go into Witness Protection. He won't be able to hurt you." He toyed with the top button of her shirt, coming just short of unbuttoning it. "We can be together. If you want."

"As much as I'd love that, everything I know is useless if they want to find him."

This time he let her kiss him, though he pulled back before she could deepen it. He let his head clear of both guilt and endorphins before continuing. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, hating himself for what he had to do next but hoping desperately that it worked.

"Dearest, do you remember the wall that Sebastien had you build? I'm sure it's like a castle wall, high and covered in thorns and roses, right? Where the sleeping beauty lies?"

She looked at him. Her brow furrowed momentarily before recognition dawned.

"Yes," she said, slowly. He ran his fingertip down her arm and folded her hand in his.

"I want you to imagine a prince on a white steed, in shining armor and glittering chain mail. You can give him my face if you'd like. He's got a mighty sword, enchanted so it will cut through anything . Riding with him is a princess whom he has already awoken."

"Yes," she said, her eyes closed and her cheeks flushed.

"That prince is charging up the road to the castle wall and hacking at the roses and the vines and the thorns. They fall away as though they are made of paper. When the stone of the wall is revealed, he drives his sword into it, and with a mighty roar the entire wall crumbles. He doesn't stop there; he rides into the throne room where another princess lies sleeping. He goes to her and kisses her. She wakes, and when she sees the other princess, she smiles wickedly and says 'I'm glad you've found me. I have many a tale to tell.' The other princess is frightened, but she knows she needs to listen to the wicked princess, that the fate of an innocent depends on it."

"Yes," she said.

"When I kiss you, the two princesses will meet. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

He leaned in and gave her the gentlest of kisses on the lips. She opened her eyes, the darkness gone. She was Molly again. He held onto her tightly as she became lucid. She looked down, eyes roving back and forth as she began to put things into place. She gasped and looked up at him, eyes full of horror and remorse.

"I'm sorry," he said.

There was a commotion at the door and the psychiatrist came bursting in, Mycroft and John right behind. Sherlock stood up to face the doctor, sitting Molly in the chair.

"Mr. Holmes that was absolutely uncalled for and I cannot believe that your brother not only sat there and watched but wouldn't allow me to put a stop to it. You don't have the training or the experience—"

"Dr. Weiss, if Maggie even has anything, she isn't going to give it to us. Molly now has access to her memories, so that she knows firsthand what she did and what was done to her, something that has been plaguing her for months. She can give us what information is vital and then you can get on with the business of ridding her of that parasite of an extra personality as well as the likely more vital job of accessing any of Molly's memories while she was being programmed. That is the goal after all, not wasting time studying Maggie for the benefit of your professional curiosity."

Dr. Weiss started speaking, but Sherlock's attention was on Molly. She was crying, rocking in place with her hands over her face.

"Molly," he said, kneeling in front of her. "I'm so sorry."

She shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't ever—"

She couldn't speak anymore as sobs wracked her body. He gathered her in his arms and carried her out the door- past the red faced psychiatrist and his dumbfounded best friend and his alarmingly calm older brother—into the safety of her room, locking the door behind them.


	47. Chapter 47

"She met up with Sébastien in Dublin and he said they were going to go shopping. But there's a gap between then and coming back to her hotel. Sébastien told her she'd had a lot of wine at lunch and passed out on the ride back to her hotel. He told her she blacked out often when she drank. She didn't feel an urge to look at the clothes she'd bought. She just left them in the car."

"Did Sébastien return to her hotel room with her?" Sherlock asked. They were lying on Molly's narrow bed, Sherlock's body spooned around hers, his arm around her waist. They had remained thankfully undisturbed while Molly told him everything she remembered about Maggie.

"No. He said he had to meet Jim in Russia and told her it was important that she go back home the next day, and no more drinking."

"What did she do when she was in her room?"

"Ate and watched telly. Then—" she turned her head so it was hidden in her pillow.

"What did she do, Molly?"

"She, er, she masturbated while thinking about you."

"Oh. And after?"

"She took a shower and went to sleep. Got up and drove home the next morning. Stopped for pastry and a coffee. "

"Okay," he said. "We can skip over the next few days, as I was present the whole time."

"Thank you."

"Do you remember what Moriarty said to her before he put her to sleep?"

"He said that she had been a good girl and didn't have to take her pills anymore. Then he started telling her the story of Sleeping Beauty and she fell asleep. The next time she woke up was here, tied to a bed with a stranger looking down at her. She thought your brother had come for you and had her thrown in a psychiatric hospital. "

"Do you want to go on?" He didn't know when she had eaten last or if her voice would hold out.

She turned to face him. "There's not much else, except memories of who Maggie was supposed to be that I guess they implanted. I think it might be easier to write all that down. "

"You're right, and you should probably eat something. And I'll get an update from Mycroft. One thing I want you to think about, going back to the first time Moriarty showed up, the day he yelled at Maggie up in her room, what was he saying after he stopped yelling at her? He was up there for a few minutes longer, speaking quietly."

Her eyes narrowed as she concentrated. Before she could speak there was a knock on the door.

"What is it?" Sherlock said.

"It's John, it's important."

Sherlock answered the door. His friend looked out of breath. He pulled Sherlock out of the room and closed the door.

"They've found Aisling," he said. "Alive. They're bringing her here."

Sherlock's stomach dropped from revulsion tempered with quite a bit of sympathy and relief. He was sure that she had been killed, either right after Sébastien put her on the plane, or as soon as Molly and Sherlock were released.

"Where did they find her? Hold on, don't answer that yet." He went back into Molly's room and rooted around the desk for pen and paper. She was standing up beside her bed. "They've found the girl that Sébastien had pose as you. I'm going to speak with my brother. Will you start writing out everything you can remember? Even the things you just went over with me. You might remember something new when you write it out."

"Sherlock, what are they going to do with her?"

"They'll try to find out what she knows. More than likely she'll have to detox first. It might not be anything, but then again, they may have let more things slip around her since she was so out of it even when she wasn't being controlled."

He turned to leave but she caught his hand.

"Wait. I'm—what if Maggie takes over?"

"That won't happen, Molly. She's just given you her memories. And as soon as we get a competent psychiatrist to take over we'll get rid of her for good." He kissed her on the forehead and left, briskly navigating the corridors with John until they reached the office that Mycroft had commandeered. He sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. His assistant Anthea sat in a chair in the corner, furiously typing on her phone as well as a laptop.

"Ah, there you are, Sherlock. How is Miss Hooper?"

"Coping. I'd appreciate it if you could send someone non-threatening and preferably female to keep an eye on her."

Mycroft glanced at Anthea, who nodded and left the room. John and Sherlock sat in the chairs opposite Mycroft's desk. The arrangement felt at once familiar and somewhat comforting, despite the foreign surroundings.

"Where did they find Aisling? I was sure they'd stumble across our medical team before they found her. In fact I thought that she was dead."

"You weren't amiss in making that assumption. She was a puppet who had fulfilled her usefulness and is invisible as far as society is concerned. We discovered her in the same drug den where Moriarty and Moran found her. We have two possibilities. One, that she has been implanted with misleading information and we were meant to find her. Two, that your good friend Sébastien had a change of heart when it came time to dispose of her. I'm leaning toward the former. You?"

Sherlock thought about his conversation with Sébastien regarding Aisling's fate and wondered if he had convinced him to let her go. Unlikely.

"It's becoming apparent that he's the mind control expert. Moriarty knows just enough to get by when Moran isn't around. Still, I don't think Moran would thwart his boss unless he was making a major power play, and this doesn't strike me as a power play unless he let her go and gave her information we need. And even then, what would he have to gain by helping us?"

"Maybe he wants to work for Mycroft," John said. Sherlock didn't try to hide his smile as Mycroft glared at his friends. Oh how he'd missed this.

"We'll know more soon enough. We'll be questioning her as soon as she arrives."

John's grin disappeared. "You're not going to let her detox first?"

"Time is of the essence, John."

"But it's practically torture, asking someone questions while they're in that state. Besides, she's likely to say anything." He looked to his friend.

Sherlock knew, not just from John's reaction, but from the sinking feeling in his own gut, that questioning Aisling while she was in withdrawal wasn't right. She hadn't done anything wrong of her own volition. But he felt Violet slipping further and further away from his grasp every minute that passed. He laughed and shook his head. Moriarty was a brilliant bastard, wasn't he? He might not have planned this scenario exactly, but it was exactly what he wanted, squeezing Sherlock into countless moral dilemmas he wouldn't have even considered dilemmas a year ago.

"You'll provide her with the proper medications and allow me to question her."

"Sherlock—"

Sherlock's eyes didn't leave his brother. "John, it's the only compromise. And at least I won't promise her another hit in order to get her to talk."

"We'll do it your way, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "She'll likely be more amenable to speaking with you anyway, if she remembers you."

Anthea entered the room. "Sir, they've arrived with the young woman. They're processing her clothes and examining her now, but I thought you should all see this. It was in her pocket." She produced a plastic evidence bag and set it on Mycroft's desk. John and Sherlock got up and stood on either side of Anthea to have a look.

Inside the baggie was a photograph of Jim Moriarty, smiling like a doting father, holding Sherlock and Molly's baby.


	48. Chapter 48

It felt as though all of the blood drained from his head and then rushed immediately back into it. There was the nausea again, accompanied by tingling in his fingertips and an elevated heart rate. Tightness in chest. Difficulty breathing. He thought for a moment how ridiculous it was to be cataloguing the physical symptoms of his emotional pain, before realizing that doing so was the only thing preventing him from putting his fist through the desk.

Stop. Think. You won't help her by losing your shit. Act like it's just another case.

He picked the photo up and examined it through the plastic. Snapshot. Nondescript beige wall in the background. Moriarty sitting on a brown sofa. Leather. Expensive. Dressed more like Richard Brook than Jim Moriarty, though the quality of the clothing looked closer to Moriarty's taste. Casual hair. Wearing a wedding band. No watch. Spit up stain on his right shoulder. No indication of sleep deprivation meaning he had passed the bulk of her care on to someone else. Could be the reason they hadn't been able to locate Martha. A few more "modifications" and she would be an ideal nanny.

He looked at his daughter. Moriarty cradled her in his arms, holding her so that her full face was to the camera, showing her off. Her eyes were open and alert. Her face wasn't as wrinkly or splotchy, and she looked slightly plumper. She was swaddled in a yellow blanket so he couldn't see what she was wearing. She had a bow in her hair.

The photo told him nothing, except that sometime in the past few days she had been alive and healthy.

He handed the photo to Mycroft, who looked over it quickly and handed it to Anthea.

"We won't find anything of importance on it, but process it anyway," he said. "Take Sherlock to speak to the girl."

"I'll go keep Molly company. Fill her in," John said. "Are you going to let her see the photo?"

"Of course," Sherlock said. "She can handle it." He walked to the door.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. He was looking down, fiddling with an Eiffel Tower shaped paper weight on the desk.

"Yes?"

"Lovely child."

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded at his brother before ducking out the door.

He followed Anthea, wondering not for the first time how the hell she was able to walk so quickly in heels. He shouldn't have trouble keeping up with her. She stopped in front of a steel door with a small square window and swiped her badge.

"She said she'd shot up right before she was found, and that was three hours ago."

"Why did I just find out fifteen minutes ago?"

"Mycroft considered your conversation with Molly to be a priority. There was nothing you could do about Aisling until she got here."

Anthea opened the door and ushered him inside.

"Miss O'Neill, Sherlock would like to speak with you. I'll be right outside."

Sherlock wasn't sure if that was meant as reassurance or a warning. It might have been a little of both.

He watched Anthea walk out and then turned his attention to Aisling. She was sitting on the small bed—more of a cot really—curled up in the corner, hugging her knees. Her skin was pink in places, as though she had been scrubbed hard. Her wet hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. It hung over one shoulder and she absently chewed on the ends.

He still felt detached from what had happened between them. If he thought about their encounters, it was always as though he were an observer instead of a participant. He could say to himself, objectively, that he had had sexual intercourse with this woman, but he had no physical or emotional attachment to it.

"Hi Sherlock," she said.

"You remember me."

"Of course I do."

"May I sit?" He gestured to the steel chair adjacent to her bed. She shrugged. When he was close enough to her, he saw that her pupils were still constricted. He felt the quiet stirring of need but shut it down before it could fully rouse. He opted instead for a cigarette, ignoring the rules. He gave one to Aisling as well.

"I don't know where your baby is," she said. "I swear. A few days ago Bastien came and got me from the island, told me I was going home. I didn't want to, you know how nice it was there. Even with people minding me all the time it was nice. And it's so fucking cold in Ireland. But he said I had to or he'd just sell me to a pimp or kill me. He dropped me off where I used to crash, gave me some money and a vial and that photo, said no matter what I had to hang on to that photo and that I probably wouldn't be there too long."

"Did you have any missing time from when he came for you and when he dropped you off?"

"Nope. I haven't had any in a long time actually. Not since I was traveling with you and Bastien. I don't really black out when I'm high, though I sometimes just fall asleep. Is that how it is with you?"

"Yes. As long as I'm awake I remember everything, though sometimes it seems like it's happening slowly."

"Right." She smiled and her eyes drifted shut.

"Aisling, wake up," Sherlock said, catching her cigarette as it dropped from her hand.

She snapped her head up. "Sorry." He stubbed her cigarette out beneath his foot on the concrete floor.

"It's okay. I just need to know everything Sébastien said to you, or around you, even if it's completely trivial. It might help us find my daughter."

"He didn't say anything else to me. I tried to talk to him but he put on his headphones and ignored me. He didn't say anything to the pilot in front of me, either."

"Was there anything in the photo he gave you that looked familiar?"

"It looked like the place Sébastien first took me. That was the only place I ever saw James, you know. But I don't even know where that was. That first time, Bastien came in and looked at me, then asked if he could take a photo of me. I told him sure, for five quid, twenty if he wanted my tits out. He said five was just fine. He took it and sent it to someone, then a few minutes later asked if I wanted to go for a ride and meet his friend. Showed me a vial and flashed a few hundred so I left with him. He let me shoot up in the car only it wasn't heroin. I realized that as soon as it hit me, but it was too late. I remember thinkin' before I passed out that this was it, I was finally going to get serial murdered and no one was gonna care. And I woke up in a place that was kind of like a hospital but kind of like a prison and an office building. Kind of like this place, a little. And that's when I met James and I started missing time. And it was crazy because I would come to and I would feel sometimes like I'd been beat or I'd have a headache or some cuts but I was never raped as far as I could tell."

"Do you remember what month it was when you met Sébastien?"

"It was August."

"Did they ever tell you why they were keeping you?"

"I asked Bastien once and he said that I looked like someone special and they needed me. For insurance. It's your baby's mam, isn't it? Who I look like?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry they did that. You seem like you'd try really hard to be a good dad. I'm sorry I had any part in it."

"It's not your fault." He gave her another cigarette. A sheen of sweat had bloomed on her forehead and she had grown fidgety. "It would have been another girl if it hadn't been you."

"What's going to happen to me now?" she said. He could practically feel her growing panic as she started coasting down from the peak of her high. It was the part where you could still feel the effects but started calculating when you could shoot up again. It wasn't too bad when you knew exactly where your next hit was coming from. It was terrifying when you didn't.

"You'll stay here for a while. Through detox, and then once you're through that they'll want to see if they can access any of your memories from your lost time."

"And after that?"

"Ask to go to treatment, and then into witness protection."

She moaned and leaned her head back against the wall. She took a large pull off of her cigarette and handed it to Sherlock. He stubbed it out.

"Sherlock will you do me a really fucking big favor?"

"What?"

"Will you kill those cunts as soon as you get the chance?"


	49. Chapter 49

Sherlock placed a slide under onto the microscope's stage and peered into the eyepiece. He was on autopilot while he brought the slide into focus, and let his mind wander. He pictured a little girl with curly brown hair and chubby cheeks, standing on a chair next to him as he showed her a pile of ordinary sand, beige and boring. He heard her gasp of delight as she looked into the eyepiece to discover the bits of glass and bone and shell and fossil and rock that made up sand and all the shapes and colors of the grains.

He stood up straight and ran his hands through his hair. There was nothing on Aisling's clothing that belied her story. John had been surprised that she still had sand in her shoes after being away from the beach for so many days, but it was simple. She would have kept her shoes on so that they wouldn't get stolen, and so that she was always ready to run from the police if necessary.

Her hair was being analyzed at another lab, but Sherlock doubted there would be any sign of the drug that Sebastien used for programming. Molly had been a special case. The type of mind control used on both women worked best if the subject had experienced severe trauma. Even an ordinary mind could work out that Aisling's life had likely been a series of traumas.

His mind went back to what Aisling said, about killing Moran and Moriarty. He had never killed anyone and he was somewhat fascinated with people who had and still walked around, more normal on the outside than he had ever been. John. Lestrade. Donovan. All in the line of duty of course, but did that make it any easier to tuck away like you do your gun and go about your affairs? He has always skirted around asking people directly.

John was in the corner of the lab, trying not to fall asleep. Even though this lab was different from Bart's—and quite inferior—the familiarity grounded him, helped him think of it as just a case. He wished that he could banish the hopeful visions of the future, as they served more to distract than motivate. Violet's room in his mind palace was already threatening to take up an entire floor, though all it was filled with were hopes.

He had not gone back to see Molly after his conversation with Aisling. He hadn't been there when she had been shown the photograph.

He would have been useless in easing her pain. At least here he was doing something. The lab techs here had already processed everything he was looking at, but he had to give it a second look. He would have even if this were an ordinary case. Even if he was retreading the same ground, he was more useful here than he would have been to her.

Then he remembered his own reaction to seeing the photograph. He stood up from his stool and walked out the door before John could even register that he was leaving.

Her door was closed, but there was a dim light shining from the window. Their rooms were nicer than the glorified cell they were holding Aisling in, but not by much. Slightly bigger beds with better linens, cheap wood furniture rather than metal, plus reading lamps and electrical outlets.

"Come in," she answered when he knocked. He eased the door open. She was sitting on the bed, still fully dressed, legs stretched out in front of her as she leaned against the wall. A copy of the photo was in her lap. Well, half of it was. The other half—he could guess which—was balled up in the corner of the room.

He kicked off his shoes and sat next to her, forcing her to shimmy over to give him room. He took the picture from her. It was vastly improved by Moriarty's removal. He held it so both of them could see.

"I remembered what he said to Maggie that day, after he yelled at her. He said she had to have patience, and that she would get her prince, and he would take his reward to his kingdom by the sea."

"Well, if that wasn't misdirection, it at least eliminates all of the landlocked areas of the planet."

"I'm sorry it wasn't more."

"No, Molly. I'm not frustrated with you. He's taunting me, you know. It's basically an invitation to come out and play."

"I know." She studied the photo in silence, tracing her finger along Violet's Cupid's bow. "You know what pisses me off?" she said. "That fucking bow in her hair. I wanted to go gender neutral."

"But Molly, you love girly things," he said, thinking chiefly of her atrocious blog layout.

"Yes but I like them because _I_ like them, not because they were forced on me. And I don't _just_ like girly things. God I bet he's got her nursery painted pink." She let out something between a laugh and a sob and laid her head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I want to go home," she said.

"Soon."

He missed his home fiercely, too, and knowing it was so close at hand increased his impatience exponentially. Yet he was nervous about what it would mean to be back. He would be exonerated, but Sebastien had been right that there would be lingering doubt. It would be ages before the press would leave it alone. Once Violet was restored to them, it would create even more of a frenzy, considering they were keeping her existence a secret at the moment. He could only hope for a royal scandal or a Spice Girls reunion to coincide with their finding her.

There was also Molly. Molly, whose company he not only tolerated but craved. She would go back to her flat—Mycroft had kept up her rent—and he would return to his with John.

It was for the best. Their current relationship couldn't be considered healthy, could it? Not the way it was forged. Distance was good.

Except that she was the only person on this planet who understood exactly what the last ten months of his life had been. She was the only one for whom the stakes were as high as they were for him.

"Sherlock, I know that eventually we have to—get used to being apart, but…"

"Yes?"

"Stay?" It was barely a whisper.

"With you?"

"I know you probably won't sleep, and I don't know if I will—I haven't really all week—"

The hand which had been resting on his chest was clutching his shirt tightly. This was difficult for her to ask—something that had been habit when they were captive.

"Of course," he said.

He did sleep, and woke up the next morning to the sound of a tray of breakfast being brought in, along with a large pile of newspapers.

"Your brother said you'd both be in here," said the aide. "He sent along some morning reading to go with your eggs." He nodded at them and left.

Molly and Sherlock rose stiffly. They had fallen asleep with their clothes on, and the bed was entirely too small for two people, no matter how closely they slept. Sherlock got to the table first and picked up the top newspaper from the stack. It was Kitty Riley's paper, and the top story was a full retraction of her expose.

"Well done, Mycroft," he said. Molly came to look and gave a squeal of joy. She flipped through the other papers. All the headlines were variations on a theme; Sherlock was innocent, Moriarty was real.

"Well, Miss Hooper," Sherlock said. "I suppose it's time to pack our bags."


	50. Chapter 50

The light was on in the sitting room of his flat. It was the only light on the block. It was the third time he had passed his own flat without going inside.

Lestrade and John had forced him to go home after he had fallen asleep on his feet twice. He conceded that his mind was no use if he was that exhausted. But he didn't want to go inside. He would have to tell her that once again, there was nothing. She might not even be awake—she often left the light on—but he didn't want to risk it. Didn't want to call because it might wake her.

Violet was two months old today and she was still in Moriarty's hands.

Their first days back in London had been an unending series of press conferences and television appearances. Mycroft insisted they were all necessary. Best to give them something so they wouldn't dig too deep. At first they had tried to keep Molly out of it, but that only piqued their interest to the point that they clamored more to speak with her than with Sherlock. She agreed to do a handful of carefully selected interviews before asking, looking into the camera with wide eyed sincerity, to be left alone to heal. Anthea's media coaching had been superb. The media soon moved on to in depth analysis of how the justice system let a criminal mastermind slip through its fingers, and they only had to deal with the occasional reporter camped outside the door.

Molly went back to her flat at first. Her mother joined her. Her cat had been fostered while she was away, by a family with children. Molly decided it was best to leave him since the children had gotten attached, so after a tearful visit she said her goodbyes. She added that loss to her list of grievances against Moran and Moriarty.

Within a week, Sherlock received a call from Molly's mother.

"She's too proud to admit it to you, but she's not doing well. Terrible nightmares. She wakes up screaming and crying, especially when she gets back from seeing that psychiatrist."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hooper. I'll come collect her."

And he had, dismissing her protests and installing her at Baker Street.

Sherlock rarely came home to sleep, but John was there more often and Mrs. Hudson was downstairs most of the time. Her mental state improved. She told him she thought it was because his flat wasn't associated with anything that was done to her.

Ostensibly he had given her his room and he was to sleep on the sofa on the rare occasions he needed it. That arrangement lasted less than two days. If John had an opinion on their sharing a bed, he kept it to himself. He did comment on how the two of them communicated by shorthand now.

"It's common when people spend a lot of time together. You and I have our shortcuts as well," he'd shrugged and gone back to poring over the transcripts of Aisling's hypnotic regressions, highlighting every time she mentioned a tower and a creaking monster.

Molly's progress in therapy was slow, but so was their progress tracking Moriarty. Sherlock was certain that the key was locked somewhere in Molly's head, but if they pushed too hard, the trauma could be devastating. The psychiatrist had been able to draw out bits and pieces of what Molly had been through when she was programmed, but it never amounted to more than a few sentences, and none of it was useful in finding Violet.

At least they had been successful in getting rid of Maggie, once Molly had written down every detail about her that she could.

Sherlock went around the block again, bought a pack of cigarettes at the corner shop, and then made the same block again.

It was cold, and he really was exhausted, so after taking a last drag he flicked his cigarette into the gutter and went inside.

She wasn't in the sitting room, but the fire had been banked recently. He went into his room. She was asleep, and when he saw tear stained face in the lamp light (she couldn't sleep in the dark anymore) he realized she couldn't have been asleep long. He changed into pyjama bottoms and a t shirt and quietly slipped into bed behind her, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her against him. He lay there for a few minutes, breathing in the scent of her hair and body. She hadn't showered that day but she had the day before so there was no cause for worry just yet. The main issue she dealt with, he knew, was a feeling of helplessness. She felt as though there were absolutely nothing she could do to help get Violet back. Sherlock never told her, but he felt the same way, as he stared at information on his computer, or the collage of information pinned to the wall behind the couch. Leads that ended in dead ends, bridges to nowhere.

At the moment, it was all about islands, with every clue and false lead and fake sighting pointing in that direction. There were tens of thousands of islands in the world, and he would eliminate them one by one no matter how long it took. But as powerful as Mycroft was, he was neither omnipotent nor omniscient and his resources were limited. He couldn't mobilize the entire secret service to look for one baby, if said baby wasn't royalty.

Molly turned to face him. He couldn't believe that after all this time she could still look so hopeful.

"Another dead end," he said. "Several in fact. They're doing the same thing he did when Moran had me. Sending us in several directions while he's got her in a secure place. But we have to examine every lead. I just keep hoping a pattern will emerge. "

She buried her face in his chest.

"I keep dreaming she's back. And then I have to wake up. It's worse than the nightmares."

He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. It was all he could think to do. He had no words. What words would there be even if he were a man adept at giving comfort?

She snuggled closer to him. His body was beginning to relax when she ran her hands down his chest and then under his shirt, working her way back up. She took hold of his shirt hem and started yanking it up.

"Molly, what are you doing?"

"I just need to not think about it, for just a little while, I don't want to think about it anymore," she said. She kissed his neck, in that spot, the one behind his ear that made his brain misfire. He let her work his shirt off, and as she explored his chest with her hands and mouth his mind flashed to a similar scene, in a bed in another country. He shoved the memory back and focused on the present. On her lovely mouth pressed against his and her hand snaking its way into his pants. He didn't let himself think about the implications of what they were doing or the aftermath or whether it was right. Just the feeling of her bottom lip between his teeth and her hand brushing the head of his cock. Oh, wait.

He pulled away. "Molly, I don't have any condoms."

He would go out right this moment to the nearest chemist and buy a case if that's what she asked, because he wanted it too, the oblivion of losing himself in the smell and taste and feel of her.

"It's okay. I got an IUD."

He kissed her again. "Are you sure?"

"Sure I got an IUD? It's a sensation you don't really forget." She pushed him onto his back and kissed him deeply, her chest pressed against his.

He broke away again, one hand cupping her face, the other combing through her hair. "No, are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes," she said. "Please."

Sherlock rolled over so that she was underneath him. He wanted to cover her, to shield her. He peeled her shirt off and placed a reverent kiss between her breasts. He cupped one in his right hand and took the other nipple into his mouth, delighting in the way her back arched to meet him. After giving her other nipple the same delicious treatment, he leaned back on his heels, running his hands up her thighs. When he got to her hips, he hooked his thumbs up through the waistband of her knickers and pulled them off of her. She let her feet fall on either side of him, knees bent and legs slightly splayed. He took in the sight of her and wasn't sure where he wanted to start. The most beautiful part was the look in her eyes, those eyes that were all his Molly. He could look at her forever.

She sat up to kiss him, her hand on his neck, playing with the hair at his nape. Her other hand was in his pants, wrapped around his cock, stroking him slowly. She lay back down and brought him with her. He pushed his pants and bottoms off, wiggling out of them and kicking them to the end of the bed. Taking himself in hand, he slid the head of his prick along her clit and to her entrance. He looked in her eyes. She nodded and he eased himself inside her. She gasped with it, but not from pain, raising her hips to take him in fully. He had to pause, afraid he would lose sit, the sensation was so overwhelming after so long. And so different now that he was actually with _Molly_.

He finally trusted himself to move, taking long strokes and pushing into her to the hilt. His hands explored her as they moved together. Her body was different. Her tummy and hips were rounder, there was a soft ripple of stretch marks on her lower belly, and her breasts were fuller. But inside, she was exactly the same. Her moans and hitching breaths were exactly the same.

He kissed her and she wrapped her legs around him.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered in her ear.

"You. Just you. Always you."

And he gave himself over to her, fully, for the first time, not caring about how it would look in the cold light of day. He clung to her, forgetting who he was and finding solace in the comfort he could give her. And after her cries had drawn out his own release and they lay panting and sweaty, he continued to plant kisses all over her body, until the inexorable pull of sleep overtook him.


	51. Chapter 51

Molly's side of the bed was empty and cool when he woke up. Judging from the light sneaking through the gap in his curtains it was just shy of dawn. Sherlock put on his pyjama bottoms and wandered into the sitting room. She was in his chair, arms wrapped around her knees. Her hair was wet. She was wearing his dressing gown. The room was chilled so he knelt to build up the fire. Molly lit a cigarette. She took one drag and handed it to him.

"Don't be so shocked," she said. "How do you think I got through medical school?"

"I just never—"

"You never ever suspected?"

"No, actually."

She shrugged. "I quit ages ago."

He sat back, forearms resting on his knees. How was it that after all the time they'd spent alone together, after how many days and nights they'd sat talking, or not talking, she could still surprise him? He smiled, thinking about the time when he thought he knew everything worth knowing about her.

He closed his eyes and the warmth of the fire became the sun on his face, the early morning cars passing in the rain the swell of the surf. A little girl's laughter and her mother in a ridiculous wide brimmed hat, both of them pale and vulnerable and shimmering.

"You knew my body. All of it. Everything," Molly said.

He opened his eyes. It hadn't been an accusation, but a statement of fact, as though it were the price of milk. Yet he couldn't look at her.

"Yes."

"I wasn't thinking about it at the time, because it was all so lovely and I didn't want to think at all. But after, when you were asleep—the first time with someone, it's—you're exploring and it's kind of awkward and you're not quite sure what the other person likes. And it was like that for me, with you, with your magnificent body and your beautiful mouth. But you knew just where to go. And then it hit me so hard. I mean, here you are, you've never even had sex of your own volition and I just pounced on you like a drunken teenager. I'm so sorry."

"Molly, no," he said. He threw his cigarette in the fire and got on his knees in front of her. She had wrapped her arms more tightly around her knees, ducking her head down to hide her face."

"I wish I could be strong for you, and for her. I know I'm supposed to."

"Molly, I've never seen a single person display as much strength as you in my entire life. Do you know how many people I've seen completely broken from half as much as what you've been through? And if I hadn't wanted to have sex with you, I would have said no. I wanted to."

She raised her head. Her eyes were red rimmed and huge and devastated.

"Why?"

He had to backtrack in his mind, because he hadn't actually been thinking of why when he'd done it. It had just been the only thing he wanted to do.

"Because I wanted to make you feel better, and because I needed to feel better. I wanted to be close to you and because I wanted to know what it was like to do it with—with someone I actually care about. To know if it was different."

"Was it?"

"Molly, I think you know the answer to that one."

"Say it."

"Yes. And I would do it again. I want to do it again."

"Now?"

"Yes, whenever."

"Okay."

He hooked a hand behind her calf and pulled her left leg down. He did the same with the other so that he was bracketed between her legs. She placed her hands on his shoulders. He untied the belt of the dressing gown and opened it, revealing all of her clean skin and curves as he gently pushed her back. He ran his hand from her hip to her breast, circling the nipple gently with his thumb. He wanted desperately to spread her legs wide and lick and suck her until she was a quivering mess, but he wanted her to have control over everything that happened.

"What do you want?" he said.

She leaned forward and kissed him, the mild taste of tobacco foreign on her lips, but not unpleasant. She kissed, along his jaw to his ear, and sucked on the lobe briefly before whispering, "I want to taste myself on you the next time you kiss me."

"May I use my hands as well?"

"Please."

Hand splayed on her chest, he eased her back into a reclining position. He ran his hand down her body until his thumb was positioned just above her center, his fingers caressing her hip and thigh.

"What do you want me to do?"

"You already know what to do," she said.

"I want you to tell me what you like."

She tried to stifle her smile with a serious expression but failed. Her giggle turned into a gasp as he swiped his thumb down her clit.

"Good?" he said.

"Yes."

"Tell me more."

"Gentle pressure," she said. "Little circles. No more than two fingers inside me. Slow strokes."

While his right thumb made slow circles on her clit, he caressed her leg with his left hand, slowly stroking it from her thigh to her calf and up again, then lifted it so that her ankle rested on his shoulder, opening her up to him just a bit more. He moved his thumb to her opening , testing her readiness. He closed his eyes and breathed in. She was so wet again already. He was painfully hard, but as much as he wanted to drive himself into her, his desire to draw it out until they were both at the very edge was greater.

So he eased one finger into her, drinking in her gasp and the fluttering of her eyes like a cool sip of water. He pulled out, and on the second stroke, he added his middle finger. She rolled her hips, inviting him deeper inside, and her hands clutched the arms of his chair. He crooked his fingers and pressed a bit harder on her clit and she moaned his name and a word that might have been "Please."

"Please what?" he said. He laid his left hand flat on her belly, feeling it convulse with her pleasure and her heaving breaths as he continued to work her with his right hand. Then he slid it under her to pull her close to the edge of the chair.

"Your mouth," she said.

"Where?" he said, kissing the silky skin of her inner thigh. "Here?"

"No, put it on my—oh God—"

Before she could get the word out, he had his lips on her, pulling on her center, his fingers still inside her. It was incredible how much pleasure she got just from this tiny part of her body. Her hands twisted into his hair, tugging just enough to feel extraordinary. He really needed to explore that fine line sometime, maybe dance on it. But now, as he lapped at her and tasted her he only wanted to give her pleasure. To hear her moan out his name as though it were the only word left in her vocabulary.

She tugged at his hair again, harder. "Sherlock, please. Please."

"What?" he said, face still buried between her legs.

"Fuck me."

He gave her clit one last sucking kiss and lowered her leg to the floor. He stood up and held out his hand to help her up. When she was on her feet, she pulled his head toward hers and kissed him until he couldn't breathe. He started to pull her toward his bedroom.

"No," she said. "In the chair. Sit down." She pushed down the waistband of his bottoms until they fell, puddling at his feet. He stepped out of them and moved around her to sit down. She dropped his dressing gown from her shoulders so that it hung on her arms.

"Leave it on," he said. "Please."

The smile she gave him could fuel his fantasies for weeks. She stepped forward and rested one knee on the seat of the chair between his thigh and the arm, and swung the other over to straddle him. She stood fully up on her knees, breasts level with his mouth, her arms looped gently around his neck. The dressing gown covered them both and he was surrounded by the smell of her. Her shampoo and her skin and his cologne on his dressing gown and the smell of her arousal. He pulled a nipple into his mouth and cupped her arse with his hands, dipping his fingers into her. He moved to the other nipple as she slid down his body until she was poised right at the tip of his cock, which lay heavy and hot against his belly. He reached down and moved it just enough for her to slip onto it. The movement made them both moan softly, and they looked into each other's eyes, slightly stunned. It felt simultaneously like coming home, and like leaving for a new adventure.

"How is this even real?" she whispered.

He wove his fingers into her hair and pulled her toward him until he forehead rested against his. "What else would it be?"

"I'm never sure anymore," she said, before covering his mouth with hers.

He put his arms around her and pulled her close as she began to ride him. It wouldn't take long. She breathed quickly, shallowly, her eyes closed and her hands groping blindly at his shoulders and chest. She whimpered with every down stroke as he rose to meet her. Faster and faster until her entire body tensed and she wailed. As she crested her peak she relaxed, rippling around him, her pace decreasing, head on his shoulder and one hand in his hair. A few moments of shattered breathing and he put his hands on her hips as she started to move again. She was so wet that he thought he might get off on the sound of their fucking alone. She let him control he pace, arms braced on his shoulders as he moved her up and down, until finally all of the tension coiled in his belly unfurled into a hot spike of pleasure and he slammed her down hard one more time, emptying into her, breath ragged as he pulled her against him.

"Better?" he whispered, placing a kiss on her temple.

"Yes," she said. His dressing gown had slipped off of her shoulders. As their sweat dried and their skin cooled, she slipped her arms out of it and covered them both as well as she could. They remained there, drifting in their own minds, moored to each other as the world woke up around them.


	52. Chapter 52

Sherlock adjusted his cuffs and examined himself in the mirror. Almost two months home and he still reveled in the feeling of wearing a suit again. It made him feel contained. The flat was silent other than the usual creaks and complaints of an older building. Molly had left for her therapy session a half hour before, flustered and late. He had kissed her at the top of the stairs, naturally and without forethought, then watched her rush out the door and into the waiting black car. He looked at his phone, which had been oddly quiet all morning. He planned to work from his flat, at least until Molly returned, so that he could spend some time thinking and processing. He would have preferred having at least one person to talk at, but there were too many distractions at headquarters.

He set his phone down on the coffee table and stared at his wall of information. A few seconds later his text alert rang. All of the air seemed to rush out of the room when he opened the message.

It was a photo of Violet. Very recent. Taken from above, it showed her lying on a blanket. She smiled, a big, gummy grin that mimicked his own.

She wore a tiny t shirt that said "Daddy's Little Girl." Her eyes were blue.

The phone rang. Molly's name on the caller ID. He ignored it. She had obviously been sent the same photo, but he couldn't talk to her. Couldn't comfort her. He needed to think. It rang again. He almost threw it across the room. The third time it rang he answered it.

"Molly, I take it you got it, too. I can't talk right now. Go to your session. You're almost there, right?"

"Sherlock, I can't do that now!" She was sobbing so hard he could barely understand her.

"Molly, it's the most important thing you can do right now. I need to call Mycroft. "

"Sherlock—"

"Do it, I have to go." He hung up. The phone remained silent.

He hurtled down the stairs and hailed a taxi. Once in the car he forwarded the photo to Mycroft. His phone rang within thirty seconds.

"I received it as well," his brother said. "We've started analysis already."

Sherlock ended the call and stared out the window. This was the beginning of something bigger and it made him exceptionally uneasy. He looked at the photo again. All of that hair. There was really no mistaking she was his. Other than the shape of her eyes and nose, she resembled him completely.

Her smile should have been for Molly or for him. Was she laughing now, too? They both had been reading books about child development. It helped to keep her real, to remember that when they got her back she wouldn't be the wrinkly infant they had last held. But the idea that all of those milestones were being witnessed by a lunatic and his henchman was unbearable.

He inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to gain an objective distance. It's just another case. He had to keep telling himself that. He'd achieved the goal somewhat by the time the cab pulled up in front of a nondescript office block in Croydon. He paid the fare and went inside, riding the lift to the third floor.

Since they were keeping Violet's existence a secret, they couldn't work from NSY, so they had set up headquarters here. They'd leased an entire floor for privacy but only used a few of the rooms. Lestrade was burning the candle at both ends, working this case with Sherlock when he was able to get away from his official duties. Mycroft had been able to spare three of his most trusted associates, though they were scattered across the globe handling much of the legwork.

John was staring at the flat screen in the conference room, Anthea at his side. No sign of Lestrade. he photo of Violet was blown up and Anthea had zoomed in on her right eye. The silhouette of the photographer was clear, but it was impossible to tell who it was. What caught Sherlock's attention and made him momentarily stop breathing was the tiny brown spot directly above her pupil, identical to his. He felt another shackle close around his heart, formed by a genetic anomaly the size of a pinhead.

Anthea's text alert rang and the usually unflappable assistant paled as she stared at her phone.

"Shit," she said.

"What?" John and Sherlock said at the same time.

"They've sent that photo to every media outlet in the UK with the message 'First one to guess who my daddy is gets an exclusive.'"

"Fuck!" This time Sherlock's phone did fly across the room. Fortunately, it landed on one of the well-padded conference table chairs and remained intact.

"Sherlock," John said. "Remember, this doesn't help anything. You said you needed to remain objective."

"I'm trying, John. It's so incredibly difficult."

"I know."

"No you don't," he said. "You have no idea." His friend nodded and patted him on the shoulder. He went to confer with Anthea quietly.

Only one person knew how he felt, but she was too close to it. If he sought her out he would be useless, wanting nothing more than to hide in her hair and her body and try to forget.

He sat down and panned to Violet's left eye in the photo. The reflection was a little clearer due the angle, but the photographer was still backlit due to taking the photo from above. No discerning features in the background, only sky. From the silhouette it looked to be Moran, though that told him nothing, really. Either the two men had her together or Moran was playing babysitter while Moriarty went about his usual business.

Sherlock flipped to the scan of the photo that had been in Aisling's pocket. The resolution was poor, since it was a scan of a 4x6 print, and he had looked at it over and over, but it wouldn't hurt to look at the photos side by side. He violently shut down every stray thought pertaining to how she'd grown and studied the photos. The only similarity was the yellow blanket. He laughed.

"What?" said John.

"Well, they have her somewhere in the temperate zone of the Northern Hemisphere, or along the Equator. She's wearing a short sleeved shirt and her skin doesn't have any mottling associated with the cold. The fact that she's smiling instead of fussing from discomfort supports the idea that the weather is mild. So how many square miles of coastline and deserted islands does that leave us with, assuming she's still in the location where this photo was taken or that it wasn't just a really nice late fall day in New Zealand?" He was talking to himself, mostly, because it was useless, what he was deducing. And pretty soon they were going to get inundated with phone calls from reporters and overzealous tips from well-meaning citizens.

"Oh, shit," he said. He got up and put his coat back on as he walked toward the lift. John followed.

"No," Sherlock said. "I have to do this alone."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to have a quick chat with my mother. She might be a bit upset with me if she not only finds out she has a granddaughter via the evening news, but also finds out she's been kidnapped by the man who tried to ruin her son's life. Get Molly on the phone and take her to talk to her mother.

"Sherlock, how the hell do your mothers not know about the baby?"

"It wasn't important," he said. He watched John's face splutter with indignation as the lift doors closed.

A black car was pulling up as he exited. He opened the door and slid in next to his brother.

"Don't tell me you're here for moral support."

"No, just to intercept you. She's not in the country today, she's in town. We're to meet her at the Tea Room at Harrods. There'll be no chance that she'll make a scene."

"Really, Mycroft, our mother's idea of making a scene is a really strong pout. You're just craving a treacle tart. Or six."

Mycroft faced forward and told the driver where to go. He sat silently for a few blocks.

"That was _one_ time," he said finally.


	53. Chapter 53

Mrs. Holmes was already seated at a relatively secluded table when the brothers arrived. Chanel suit. Misaki pearls. Cartier watch. Her still mostly red hair in a chignon low on her nape. She was very regal and very thin and very French, despite the fact that she had not lived in France full time since she was three years old.

They each kissed her cheek before sitting down. She looked both of them over across the table and rolled her eyes.

"I should have known this wasn't a social visit, especially considering I've only seen Sherlock once since his return to England. Good thing I hadn't ordered anything yet. What's the matter?"

"Well, Mother—" Sherlock started.

"A matter which we have been at pains to keep secret is in imminent danger of coming to light, and since it involves our family, we thought it best you hear about it from us. From Sherlock since it involves him most intimately."

"You really did get Molly Hooper pregnant, didn't you?" Mrs. Holmes said, her icy grey eyes boring into Sherlock's.

"Well, Mummy—" he found he couldn't finish the sentence and merely gaped at his mother. She sighed impressively and leaned toward him.

"You are both my sons and it continues to amaze me that you always forget that your intellect was not created in a vacuum. The press may have bought your story, but I saw photos of that poor girl. She was whippet thin but came back from an incredibly trying ordeal carrying ten extra pounds and looking like a shell shocked war bride. I sat on the board at Great Ormond Street long enough to know the look she has. That is a look of profound loss. I did not pry because I know that you two always have reasons for your secrecy, but I'm assuming by the sudden urgent need for my knowing that I have a grandchild is that the media has caught wind of the child's existence. So where is it?"

Sherlock had still not recovered his capacity for speech so Mycroft took over.

"She was taken by James Moriarty and his associate Sébastien Moran the day after she was born, at which point Miss Hooper and Sherlock were released from their captivity." Mycroft pulled up the photo on his phone and handed it to Mrs. Holmes.

She looked at the photo and looked sharply back at Sherlock, aghast, her eyes glistening. She pulled a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes carefully before any tears could fall. When she looked back at her younger son, her eyes were dry.

"Her name?"

"Violet Rose." Sherlock said. Mrs. Holmes nodded her approval.

"She's two months old?"

"Yesterday."

"And you haven't retrieved her yet?"

"Mummy, it's very complicated and—"

"No more excuses, Sherlock Holmes. This is the life you chose, and you're finally beginning to understand the consequences. There will be time to sort out your feelings later but this is most emphatically not that time. Do what you have to do. Get her back. You've wasted enough time already. Call me if you need anything."

The two men stood as their mother rose. She kissed them each on the cheek and hurried out, phone already to her ear.

"That went well," Sherlock said. He checked his watch. "I should see if Molly's session was at all productive. Hopefully she's not still with her mother." He left Mycroft to deal with the rather confused waiter and hopped in a cab.

He messaged John for an update on Molly.

-At her flat. DON'T COME HERE. Her mum wants to murder you. Can't say I blame her.—

-Bring her to Baker Street. Molly, not her mother.—

-She's not exactly keen on that—

-Why not—

-You need to talk to her yourself—

-That's what I'd like to do but it would seem we're at an impasse if I can't come there and she won't come home—

-For Christ's sake Sherlock just call her—

His thumb was hovering above the call button when the cab rounded the corner onto his block.

"Marvelous," he said, pocketing his phone. A lone figure stood on the stoop, a dingy reporter called Will Ainsworth. He was finishing off a sandwich from Speedy's. When Sherlock got out of the cab, the reporter tossed the wrapper on the ground, wiped his hand on his trousers and held it out.

"Evenin' Sherlock."

"Hello, Bill. Slow news day?" Sherlock ignored the proffered hand and fished his keys out of his pocket.

"Shaping up to be a pretty great one," he said, getting out his mobile. "You wouldn't happen to be missing something would you?" He held his phone up.

Sherlock glanced at the photo of Violet. He kept his face carefully neutral before smirking derisively. "Still on that kick, are we? Your editors must be getting impatient by now."

"Come on, Sherlock. They're only giving us one guess each, have to post it in Missed Connections in Craigslist. But she's your spitting image, isn't she? If you just verify it for me, I'll make sure you get in on the exclusive before I take it to my editor."

"Sorry, Bill. I can't help you," he said, going into 221 and shutting the door firmly behind him. He locked it and continued up the stairs.

If Ainsworth had ever shown any evidence of being remotely trustworthy, Sherlock might have taken him up on his offer. He was certainly clever, being one of the few journalists who hadn't bought their story that the pregnancy hormones in Molly's blood had been planted in order to sensationalize Moriarty's narrative. The others who had doubted it had merely implied that Molly must have miscarried. Ainsworth was the only one who had been digging for evidence of a living child.

Sherlock retrieved his phone and called Molly.

"Don't come home just yet, Ainsworth is lurking around outside. I can come to you if you hide any sharp instruments from your mother."

"It's okay. She's left," Molly said dully. "Said it was all too much and she needed to be alone. That's what she does."

"Is John still there?"

"He left before she did. Said he needed to get some sleep before the shit really hits the fan."

"I'll come over."

"No."

"I need you to tell me about your session. You went, didn't you?"

"Yes, fine."

"You're upset with me."

"I'll see you in a bit," she said and hung up.

At her flat, she let him in and sat on the sofa. There was a glass of wine on the coffee table, but it looked to be untouched. She doubted she had stopped crying for more than a few minutes all day. He hung up his coat and sat in the chair nearest her end of the sofa.

"Molly, I'm sorry I couldn't speak to you earlier but I needed to focus."

"You think that's what's upsetting me? You think I'm pouting?"

"Well—not pouting but—Molly, I can't give you what you need emotionally while I'm working on this. It's not possible. "

"That's not what I'm asking for, Sherlock. I'm pissed off because you shut me out and left me in the fucking dark all day and had to hear about everything after the fact, from John. I'm not just some girl you're sleeping with. I'm her mother. I deserve to know everything the second it happens. From you."

"Why does it matter who you hear it from if you get the information?"

"If you really believed that, why did you make sure that our mothers got the news about Violet from us?"

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because John Watson isn't some reporter, he's my best friend. This is just—this is why. All of this is exactly why."

He stood up and went to get his coat. He had to leave. He didn't want to say the things he was thinking.

"Why what?" she said. She got up and cut him off, standing between him and the door. And she knew what he was going to say and she was going to make him say it anyway.

"Why I can't do this. For the rest of my life, if it's not you, or John or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, it'll be Violet. And all of this, this entire situation. The whole fucking reason that Violet even exists is because I let myself care. I can't ever stop caring about her or anyone else and it's ruining—everything."

Her big brown eyes filled with tears and she took a step toward him, her hand out to touch his face. He stepped back, hitting the door behind him, and grabbed her wrist.

"No," he said. "I can't." He couldn't give comfort or accept it or he would finally fall apart.

She looked at him for a very long time, tears spilling down her cheeks. He released her wrist and she stepped away from him. She went to the kitchenette and put the kettle on.

"About my session. There was only one thing. It took forever for her to get me under, but there was a little bit of conversation. From the last time they were giving me electroshock, in Dublin. I was me for a little bit and Sébastien told me that everything was okay, and that I'd be the hero in the end."


	54. Chapter 54

It had been dark for hours when things finally fell into place. He emerged from his Mind Palace to find himself sitting on Molly's sofa, a single lamp lighting the room. A mug of cold tea sat in front of him on the coffee table, untouched. She was curled up in one of her chairs, sleeping, her sketchbook and pencil on the floor beside her. She had been drawing Violet's face again. She did it from memory.

He had the name of a place. A long shot, perhaps, but a definite place. He considered waking her, but decided against it. He would let her rest until he knew something concrete. So he scribbled a note before he left, propping it against his mug on the table where she would hopefully see it immediately.

_I think I've got it. Will call you when I know more. Does Montauk ring any bells?_

_Sherlock_

He messaged Mycroft his suspicions on the way and instructed John and Lestrade to meet him at their headquarters.

"Montauk?" John said when they had gathered. "That's a place?"

"Somewhere in the States, isn't it?" Lestrade said. They stood in the conference room. Sherlock pulled up a map of the United States on the flat screen.

"Yes, on the eastern most end of Long Island in New York State. It's sometimes referred to as 'The End.' It also boasts a defunct military base called Camp Hero. It also fits with what Aisling remembered about a tower and a creaking giant. The tower is the lighthouse, and the creaking giant is the disused radar reflector moving in the wind. They must have taken Aisling there at some point in her programming."

"Sherlock, couldn't Moran have been referring to something he thinks Molly will do?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course he was, but he was also leaving a clue. You know they've wanted us to find her all along." He had forcefully put aside his suspicions about the message's other implications regarding Molly. "There's still over a week until Memorial Day in the States, when tourism will pick up, so it should be relatively quiet—"

His phone rang. Why the hell was Ainsworth calling him?

"This had better be good," he said.

"Now Sherlock, I was just calling to congratulate you. She's a beautiful baby and I did guess correctly. Though they said I wouldn't get my exclusive for a week. But it should be worth it. They're gonna send me Molly's journal from when you were on your adventure. I'm sure it's full of other small details you lot left out of the official story."

"How did they contact you?"

"All via Craigslist. In code, of course. Can't have someone else scooping me even if I do get the exclusive. The posts are gone now but I suppose you have ways of getting them if you're interested."

"What would it take for you to hold off on breaking the story at least until you get the journal?"

"A nice little sit down interview with the both of you will do, and a guarantee you won't deny that what she wrote is true. "

"Fine. Done. Contact me when you receive the journal."

His phone rang almost as soon as he ended the call. "Mycroft, your man has been deployed I take it?"

"He boarded a plane to La Guardia fifteen minutes ago. He'll be posing as a nature photographer. It's a popular area for bird watching. Your papers have been in order for weeks. You can leave as soon as we get verification."

"We've got a week before things get more complicated," Sherlock said. He related his conversation with Ainsworth.

"I should have had that one embedded in Afghanistan when he first came to my attention," Mycroft sniffed.

"Someone else might not have been as eager to bargain with me."

"Very true, he does seem quite taken with you. Your fan club grows more illustrious every day. What next, a South American dictator?"

"Your friends have never liked me, Mycroft. Text me the second you have more information."

He ended the call and his phone rang again.

"Molly—"

"I'm outside and I don't have one of those swipe cards. Let me in."

"Molly I said I would call you."

"Yes you did. And I'm here. Let me in."

He sent Lestrade downstairs to meet her as he commandeered the laptop, sitting in the darkened room opening tab after tab of information on Montauk, the military base, the light house, topography, and tourism. He knew when she came in the room but he focused on the information in front of him.

"Is that where she is? Montauk?" She asked. He looked up. She stood inside the doorway. Her hair was a mess and she wore the same wrinkled clothing she had been sleeping in, with a man's cardigan (her father's) thrown on over it all. She hugged herself tightly, her hands disappearing in the sleeves even though they were rolled up.

"I believe so," he said and explained how he'd come to that conclusion, and about his conversation with Ainsworth.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"I wanted to be sure," he said.

"Sherlock—"

"What?" he said, turning and looking at her with his most condescendingly impatient look. He hadn't used that one on her in what felt like years. She winced.

"Nothing," she said and turned to leave. He turned back to the computer.

She came back into the room a few seconds later. "Only yes, there is something. I can help you, Sherlock. Maybe not with all of this," she gestured vaguely around the room, "but—never mind." She turned and left again. He soon heard her speaking quietly with John and Lestrade.

There was nothing to do but wait for news and discover as much as he could about the seaside town. It would take five hours for Mycroft's man to reach New York. Another two hours by car to the end of the island, and it would be the middle of the night there when he arrived. It could be days before he spotted them, if they were there at all.

He looked into the other room, which was brightly lit by fluorescent tubes. Lestrade was showing Molly something on another laptop. John came out of the break room with three mugs of coffee. He set two down at the desk where Molly sat and then wandered into the conference room. He set the third mug down next to Sherlock and sat down on the edge of the conference table.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"I think it's apparent, John."

"So what, you're going to spend the next few hours, days, whatever until we hear anything sitting here on the computer?"

"I need to be prepared for any eventuality."

"Yeah, and you could easily process any information you need while you're flying over the Atlantic. So why are you avoiding Molly?"

"I need to focus."

John lowered his voice. "Did you sleep with her?"

"That is what got us into our current situation, John."

"No, I mean, since you've been back."

Sherlock opened a webpage devoted to the radar conspiracy at Camp Hero and ignored his friend. John got up and closed the door.

"That's it, isn't it? You had sex with her. With _Molly_. And now you can't handle it and you're acting like some stupid kid, running away from it."

When Sherlock didn't answer, John abruptly shut the laptop, nearly catching Sherlock's fingers between the screen and the keyboard.

"Don't you think," John said, "that she's been through quite enough without adding this into the mix?"

"It was her idea."

"I'm not talking about the sex, Sherlock. That was bloody inevitable. What she doesn't need is for you to go all—Sherlock on her."

"And yet, since I decided to distance myself from her I've made the first major breakthrough we've had since the beginning."

"With her help. Do you think you'd be anywhere without her having put herself through the hell of bringing up all those memories of being tortured? Do you think you'd be holding it together half as well as you have if she hadn't been around?"

"I can't think about that right now. I'll sort it all out when this is over."

"And you think she'll just be there and you'll say you're sorry and everything will be bloody lovely, do you?" John laughed and shook his head. "You can be one of the stupidest people I know, did you know that?"

"Are you finished?" Sherlock said.

"Seems like it," John said. "But I want you to know that you're on the verge of fucking up the second best thing that's ever happened to you."


	55. Chapter 55

They had their answer sixteen hours later. Sherlock sat in the same spot, pretending to not be dozing, his head resting in his hand. The conference table was littered with the barely picked at remains of takeaway. Molly slept on one of the two seater sofas in the break room. Lestrade had been called away on a homicide and John had gone back to the flat to shower and shave.

The chime of the elevator startled Sherlock awake. Anthea stepped off the lift and came into the conference room, her heels clicking a rapid staccato on the tiled floor. She went directly to the flat screen and inserted a memory card.

"Get Molly," she said.

"What have you got?"

"Get her." She held the remote control and stood in front of the screen, arms folded and eyebrow raised. She was at least as proficient in Judo as he, meaning it would be less time consuming to do as she asked rather than try to retrieve it.

Sherlock said Molly's name as he entered the break room. Lestrade's coat slipped off of her as she sat up.

"What's happening?"

"Anthea's here, she's got something."

Molly jumped up and pushed past him out the door, running to the conference room. She stopped abruptly in the doorway, her hand going to her mouth as she saw what was on the flat screen. Sherlock ran into her, nearly pushing her over, but he caught her by the shoulders. His grip tightened when he saw the photo.

It was the very picture of twenty first century domesticity. Moriarty and Moran at a farmers market, dressed casually and holding cups of coffee. Moriarty carried Violet in a sling. Anthea flipped through the photos, all similar. Violet's face was clear in some of them. She appeared healthy and content. Some of the photos showed other market goers interacting with the pair and with the baby.

"This is fucking surreal," Molly said quietly. "Are they posing as a couple?"

"According to our sources, yes. The locals were more than willing to share some gossip. They moved to the area a month ago, into a house that sold several months ago but stayed vacant. They haven't been out and about much. Apparently they've told people they're planning on opening an art gallery. Violet is being called Gemma and they claim they adopted her from a teen mother in Kansas."

Sherlock let go of Molly's shoulders and moved closer to the screen.

"And they have all the falsified paperwork to back it up?"

"Correct."

"He knows we know," said Molly. Anthea and Sherlock looked at her.

"Well, I mean, of course he does," she continued. She came to stand beside him in front of the screen. "Why else would he make it so easy, going out like that?If he doesn't know for sure he has to suspect it. He wants us to come to him."

She was right. His shock hadn't come from the information itself but the fact that Molly had seen it right away.

Moriarty was making it too easy after months of evasion. There was no way in hell he wasn't going to Montauk, but there was a very good chance he would be walking into a trap.

"I'm going with you, you know." She looked up at him, her eyes dark and her jaw set. "I just want you to know, in case there was even a second you were thinking otherwise."

Anthea excused herself and intercepted John as he came off the lift. Sherlock shut the door and went over to Molly. He took her by her upper arms and bent down to look her in the eyes.

"Molly I don't even have a plan yet and I don't know what we'd be walking into."

"I don't care. I'm not sitting here knowing she's there. And I don't need your permission." She raised her hands to his face and this time he let her, their coolness on his cheeks soothing. "Besides, I'm the one he really wants there."

Her resolve frightened him; he knew that she shared his suspicions about what Moriarty wanted.

He straightened up and pulled away from her. He turned quickly back to the screen, his eyes roving over every centimeter, marking every detail.

"We don't know that for sure." He picked up the remote and flipped through the photos again.

"I think he made it pretty clear," she said. "But it doesn't matter. I'm going."

"I know," he said.

When Mycroft arrived, he proved to have demonstrated quite a bit more foresight than Sherlock when it came to Molly's involvement going forward.

"I've called in a number of rather large favors in order to get you and Dr. Watson clearance as field operatives. Homeland Security is quite interested in Moriarty and Moran due to some fingers the former has in some other pies. However, we don't want a hostage situation, which is surely what will happen if we attempt any sort of raid, so they have consented to let you act on your own with limited backup if needed. The advantage of the plan for them is that it will be easy to deny all knowledge or involvement if things go wrong.

Molly and Sherlock will be posing as newlyweds on honeymoon. I know it's rather cliché but it's also simple and therefor easier to pull off. Since it's likely that Moriarty is expecting you, the ruse is more about avoiding publicity in the UK and, once again, limiting exposure of your involvement if you are not successful."

Anthea handed Sherlock an envelope. It contained their fake passports, credit cards, a flight itinerary and a set of white gold wedding bands and a diamond solitaire engagement ring. The stone was emerald cut, just large enough to properly showcase an appropriate monetary value set on love without being too ostentatious. Molly's face was inscrutable as she looked at it. He closed the box and put it back in the envelope.

"You're flying commercial I'm afraid," Anthea said. "First class, though. Your flight leaves in three hours. A car will be waiting to take you from New York to your bed and breakfast in Montauk where you'll meet up with our operative and a representative from Homeland Security. Dr. Watson will be joining you tomorrow." She handed John an envelope.

"Leonard Buckman," he said, flipping through his new passport. "What'd they saddle you with, Sherlock?"

"Alan Campbell and Carolyn unmemorable."

"If Moriarty becomes aware of your presence he will undoubtedly contact you, otherwise, you will attempt first contact on neutral ground. Miss Hooper will only be involved when absolutely necessary but should remain in either your presence or Dr. Watson's at all times. Any questions?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Do I get a gun?"


	56. Chapter 56

Molly wrapped her blanket more tightly around her body and cradled her mug of coffee, looking out the window at the North Atlantic, thirty thousand feet below. She had ear buds in, and every once in a while she would sing a phrase or two of whatever pop song she was listening to, barely audible over the white noise of the plane's engines. Sherlock feigned interest in a file Mycroft had given him and studied her, mostly from the corner of his eye, but also through quick glances.

She was nervous, having eaten only a little more than he had of their dinner. She had tried several times to go to sleep but would sit up only a few minutes later to continue her vigil out the window. He had looked out when she had gone to the loo, and the only thing interrupting the great expanse of dark blue water was the occasional iceberg.

She set her empty mug on her tray and curled her legs underneath her. She fiddled with the blanket and twirled the engagement ring around her ring absently.

They hadn't said much to each other since boarding the plane. Or since leaving the office building, to be truly honest. They packed in silence, and when it came time to leave he had slipped the rings out of the envelope, then grabbed her hand and slipped the engagement ring and wedding band on her finger. He hadn't been thinking of anything but expediency, but her small gasp made him stop and look at her. It was the first time he had really looked at her face since they were given their aliases. She wore the same expression as when she first saw the rings.

"What are you thinking?" he said. The words felt odd. Wrong in his mouth.

"Just that life never really goes the way you want or expect it. Ever."

He flipped her hand over and dropped the larger band into her palm. A few tears spilled from her eyes and onto his hand as she slipped the ring on his finger. She turned and went to retrieve her toothbrush from the bathroom.

Then the silent cab ride. Then check in, where he had to hold her close and kiss the top of her head and generally act as though he couldn't wait to get his new bride alone in a hotel room. The same act in the first class lounge, though they didn't have to be quite so obvious since there were very few other passengers. (He was grateful to get a glimpse of their pilot and ascertain that he was well rested and not an alcoholic, though he was a gambler and an adulterer.) Molly had played along gamely, though the brightness of her smile never eradicated the dullness in her eyes. For the first time in his life he felt guilty about how easily he could slip into a role in order to deceive others. And for a brief moment before he shoved the half formed thought into a corner of his mind, he knew that he wasn't playing, not completely.

He had loved having an excuse to touch her again. As his gaze glanced off of the ring on her hand to the curve of her clavicle, he admitted it. No matter what actual emotions he felt—and those were so convoluted he couldn't even begin to examine them—over the last eleven months he had grown accustomed to a certain level of physical intimacy with Molly, and he missed it, even though it had not even been two days since he last held her.

Since then he had been absolutely awful to her, and he didn't know what to do about it.

Sherlock studied the rings. He was more than a bit annoyed at Mycroft for the choice in jewelry. Not because he didn't like it, but because, if he were the marrying type, the ring was exactly what he would choose. He preferred the clean lines of the emerald cut, with no other stones or ornamentation to compete. The simple band suited Molly's small hand. And Molly.

Shaking his head to clear out the clutter, he went back to the file. He'd read it through three times and had memorized it on the first. He shoved it into the seat pocket in front of him along with his laptop and flopped back in his seat.

"I've never flown first class before."

She'd taken her ear buds out and had turned to face him, still curled up in her blanket.

"Are you enjoying it?"

"The legroom is nice. Even being short it's no fun in economy. And the pillow and blanket are much I felt weird when everyone else was boarding and walking past us when we already had our first drinks and everything."

"Next time look busy. Read a book or have your laptop open even if you don't have anything to do."

"Next time I'll be busy with our baby," she whispered.

She held his gaze, and while her eyes were heartbreakingly hopeful, he knew she didn't fully believe what she said. And it wasn't because she didn't have faith in him.

They were staring at each other when the flight attendant dropped by to offer them champagne. He almost refused, but Molly accepted and he remembered they were supposed to be newlyweds. He laced his fingers through hers and smiled at the flight attendant.

"Thank you, that would be lovely," he said. He didn't let go of Molly's hand until the young woman came back with their drinks. The champagne was decent, and worked somewhat to soothe the frayed edges of his nerves, but he still fidgeted with impatience. Why couldn't teleportation be a reality? He checked his watch. Two more hours until they touched down in New York City.

"Tell me about your first time on a plane. Do you remember?"

Normally he would have rebuffed her efforts at small talk. She had lost the habit of needing to fill their silences ages ago. But she was only trying to help.

"The first time I remember wasn't the first time I flew. I was three and we were going to Italy. Our parents didn't let Mycroft and me sit together. They would each take one of us, and that time I got to sit with my father. He was reading the Times and he let me have a section to keep me occupied, and that's how they discovered I could read. I had been keeping it a secret until I thought I was good enough at it. I started reading an article about Sally Ride out loud. He told me to be quiet twice before he realized what I was doing."

"What did he say?"

Sherlock imitated his father's gruff baritone. "'Violet, looks like we've got another one. Switch places with the little show off.' And I spent the rest of the trip reading one of the spy novels Mycroft had brought along. What about you?"

"What?" she said. She looked more than a little shaken by his story.

"Your first plane trip."

"Oh, not until I was at uni. Some friends and I went to Spain during Christmas holidays. I threw up. Was your father always like that?"

Sherlock pulled out his lap top. He didn't answer her until he had connected to the WiFi and had his email open.

"Yes."

He retreated into his computer and she started to put her ear buds back in.

"I can't make any promises," he said, still staring at the screen. "But I will try very hard not to be. Like that. "

She nodded curled back in the seat, staring at the window. The next time he looked over at her she was asleep.


	57. Chapter 57

Customs turned out to be far less tedious than imagined, and after clearing it, Sherlock found the driver with the placard marked "Campbell," told him they wouldn't need his services but that obviously he would be receiving his full fee, and steered Molly to the rental agencies.

"Sherlock what are you doing?"

"I'm doing things my way. We'd have to hire a car once we got to Montauk anyway, and it's one less person we have to deal with. We can talk freely. Besides, I like to drive and I don't get to do it often enough."

"Fine. But we're switching off halfway there. He did include a driving permit for 'Carolyn' as well, after all."

"Have you ever driven on the right side of the road?"

"Not on purpose, but I think I'll be fine. I looked at the map and it's mostly Interstate anyhow."

"It's only a little over two hours."

"So we switch off after an hour."

"Fine. But I'm getting us out of the city."

"Be my guest."

They ended up in a dark grey Impala. Sherlock was impressed with the trunk space, and they argued for a bit about how many bodies it would hold. Molly was a bit dubious about the car's width.

"The roads are wider here. But if you want me to drive the whole way, I will."

"Nope."

The car came equipped with satellite radio, and Molly found a nineties station right away. Sherlock turned it down as he navigated away from the airport, but let her turn it up again once they hit the expressway. Traffic was heavy, but they were just in time to miss the snarled nightmare it would become later.

"It's too bad we can't see Manhattan from here," Molly said.

"You'd have seen plenty of it if you hadn't slept the last half of the flight. We had to circle for a while, and there was even a game going on at Yankee Stadium when we flew over."

"It's pretty late at home and I do tend to keep semi regular hours since I'm not working." She yawned and leaned her seat back. Now, tell me what was in that file you were pretending to read."

"You could have read it at any time. Or you could now."

"Can't read in a car or I get sick. Or on planes. And motion sickness pills knock me out."

"Mostly information about Moriarty and Moran's aliases. Richard Driscoll and Brooks Devereaux. Yes, very clever, right? The house they purchased was owned for five years by a man who never occupied it. There was the occasional summer tenant. The previous owner doesn't actually exist, and it's fairly evident that Moriarty bought it from himself. It was traced back to one of the same shell corporations that owned a few of the properties were Moran held me. Said property appears to contain the entrance to an underground tunnel leading to the old Air Force base." He maneuvered around a slow moving eighteen wheeler and drove in silence. They flew past the suburbs and industrial parks and into a forested area that could be in any part of northern Europe. The traffic thinned even more the further east they headed, and the lowering sun filtered through the trees, playing with his vision and casting a golden light on everything.

Molly, who had been quietly singing along to a No Doubt song, jerked forward to turn the radio off.

"I managed to read some of the info about Montauk. It was really-difficult. The stuff about the experiments during the war. It's where the technique they used on me was developed, wasn't it?"

"So say the conspiracy theorists."

"Your brother would know the truth, wouldn't he?"

"Yes. He also won't reveal it unequivocally. But whether it's true or not, Camp Hero is inextricably linked to torture based mind control, and that's the reason he chose Montauk for this—confrontation or whatever he wants."

"He's had that house there for five years, though. It has to mean something."

"Indeed," Sherlock said, and lapsed into silence again.

They switched off driving at a truck stop. Molly bought an American flag sticker that featured a bald eagle, lots of glitter, and the phrase "Freedom Isn't Free." Sherlock sniffed in disdain when he saw it but did find it somewhat amusing. He asked her if she was going to display it on her car when they got home.

"No, on the fridge. I'd rather my car not get keyed by someone who doesn't appreciate irony." She maneuvered the seat forward, adjusted the mirrors, and acquainted herself with all the controls.

She was a much better driver than Sherlock had imagined. He thought she would be nervous, but once she got used to the automatic transmission and got a feel for the size of the car, she was fine. She was even a bit of a lead foot.

"It's got cruise control," he suggested.

"What's the fun in that?" she said, taking her foot off the gas pedal as she spotted a state trooper parked on the median.

She drove with her left foot propped on the seat and her forearm resting on her knee. He wondered if she did that when she drove a standard transmission. He supposed it didn't matter much on the open highway. She took her hands off the wheel to wind her hair into a bun (the wheel alignment was excellent, apparently) then rolled down the windows. The air was heavy with moisture and salt, and the wind whipped through the windows at eighty miles per hour with a dull roar, but she looked as happy as she possibly could, given the circumstances, so he shoved a baseball cap over his curls and watched her in his peripheral vision. He wished he had a cigarette to offer her.

When they neared their exit, she rolled up the windows so she could hear the GPS. It led them through a quaint main street to a coastal highway, every manner of house from fishing shacks to colonial salt boxes to modern beach mansions on their left, the sea on their right. The dulcet voice of the navigation system directed them to turn into a shell paved driveway leading to a two story colonial. The bright yellow house was festooned with American flag bunting on the porch and the second floor gallery, both of which ran the width of the front of the house. Molly pulled into the designated parking area and turned off the car. Sherlock broke the silence with a giggle.

"Do you think they keep it like this all year, or just when the British are coming?" Molly said.

"Don't be silly, it's obviously for Memorial Day. And Independence Day. And Labor Day."

"And Christmas and New Year's. Do they do Boxing Day here?"

"No. Come on, get it together."

They had just managed to compose themselves when a brightly smiling man who could pass as a Kennedy cousin came out onto the porch. He was wearing boat shoes, khakis and a polo shirt. They lost it again. As the man approached, Sherlock covered up their mirth by pulling Molly in for a quick snog. Her mouth tasted like the syrupy latte she'd gotten from a machine at the truck stop. He repeated to himself that it was all an act and he almost believed it.

When he released her, he saw that the man was standing a discreet distance from the car. Yes. New Englanders could be just as stodgy as the English. Good. He much preferred it to the backslapping and innuendo they'd get from a southerner or Midwesterner.

They got out of the car and the man introduced himself as Trip Wayland. Sherlock looked him over. Ivy League. Old money, though not immune to the economic collapse in 2008, which was why they were running a bed and breakfast from what used to be the family's summer home. It was the only way they could afford to keep it. Married, happily, very recent empty nesters. Light smoker. Wife unaware.

Mr. Wayland carried Molly's suitcase and led them to a sunny upstairs room with a door leading onto the gallery. He showed them how to work the sun shades and pointed to a path across the street.

"That leads right to the beach. It's still too cold to swim, at least for most. I'm sure you're used to colder water so it might be just fine. The southerners can't stand it even in August. Hot breakfast is at eight but if you're up sooner or later than that we put out plenty of cereal and pastries before sunrise. Cookie jar and refrigerator are fair game twenty four seven. There's a television downstairs but when there are other guests we ask that you turn it off by ten. Only other guest tonight is another English fella. Nature photographer so he's out pretty early and doesn't come back until late. Weird thing, we've got another English guy coming tomorrow. It's funny, though, a whole family had the place booked for months and they cancelled last minute, and then I've got all you Brits on my waiting list. Second British Invasion, right?"

Molly and Sherlock smiled politely but could not meet each other's eyes for fear of cracking up again. Sherlock put his arm around Molly and pulled her close, putting on a benignly worried expression.

"You haven't told this nature photographer that we're English, have you?"

"Oh, no. Haven't had much of a chance to talk to him."

"Good. And don't tell the other one either. We'd be forced to socialize with our fellow countrymen, and well, you know. We're on our honeymoon."

"Right!" said Wayland, coloring slightly. "Well, let me just show you a little trick with the shower. The plumbing's always been a bit persnickety. Then I'll get out of your hair."

When Wayland had left, Sherlock locked the door and stalked to the bathroom. He removed the lid of the toilet tank and removed an airtight bag. He held it up for Molly. It held two handguns and four ammunition clips.

"A present, I'd say it was from Mycroft's man since he's already here, but I'm actually leaning more toward our friends at Homeland Security." He examined the pistols, both Glock Model 17s. Inexpensive, but efficient and accurate. They'd do. Sherlock looked over at Molly.

"Don't worry. The other one is for John. Though I realize now we were probably remiss in not teaching you how to handle one." She shook her head and he noticed how pale she'd become. He stowed the weapons and ammunition in the night stand and went to her.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"I just—it's just really—real. Now." She sat down on the bed and started the breathing exercises she'd learned from her therapist. He sat beside her and rubbed her back. He lifted her hair and blew cool air on her nape. It took a quarter of an hour, but finally her breathing slowed and her hands stopped shaking. She stood up and smiled at him bravely.

"Let's go for a walk on the beach. It's a romantic newlywed type thing to do, right? And I've never seen this side of the Atlantic."

"Okay. I should probably change out of this suit, though."

"Yeah, even James Bond wears swim trunks."


	58. Chapter 58

When they unpacked, Molly's surprise at the variety of clothing in his suitcase amused him. Yes, he wore suits almost every day he bothered to get dressed, but he needed other clothing styles on hand for undercover work. Somehow over the years he'd never gone into the lab while wearing one of his disguises and she'd gotten it into her head that he therefore owned nothing but suits.

"What did you think I slept in?" She blushed and shook her head.

"You thought I slept in the nude? Or did you just hope I did?" She huffed and went into the en suite. He shrugged. "I did, sometimes, you know."

Only the sound of running water from the bathroom. He threw on a pair of plaid shorts, a white t shirt and a chambray shirt. He put on a belt for the sole purpose of being able to use the waistband holster he'd packed. He loaded the gun and tucked it into the holster just as Molly emerged from the loo. She had changed into long sundress and her dad's cardigan.

Her eyes flicked to the outline of the gun under his t shirt. She didn't comment.

They didn't see Wayland downstairs, but the sound of a baseball game drifted from the private sitting room off the main living room. Possibly the same game they had flown over a few hours before, since baseball was often an interminable sport.

The beach lay just across the road and over a line of grassy dunes. The sun hung low and the only other soul in sight was a man standing a quarter mile to the east, taking photos of some seagulls. About a mile beyond him stood the lighthouse.

Molly slipped her hand into his and they stood at the top of the dune. He closed his eyes and breathed in the sea air, listening to the crying gulls and the surf. Again, the image of his little girl and the woman beside him, on a beach, safe and somehow happy.

"Come on," Molly said, and pulled him down the dune, leading him toward the setting sun.

They hadn't gone far before Sherlock was aware that the other man on the beach was following them.

Molly noticed after about half a mile, and kept glancing behind them. He let her worry for a few minutes before he put her at ease.

"Molly, it's Mycroft's man."

"Oh. Oh!" she said. "How long have you known?"

"Since he first started following us."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Wanted to see if you'd figure it out."

She stopped and stood in front of him. "Sherlock, I was genuinely scared."

"Why? I'm with you." He smiled at her, and when she smiled back, the first thought he had was to wonder what it would take to get her to look at him like that all the time.

"It's okay," he said. "If he had been a threat, you gave away right away that you were onto him, so he would have been forced to attack or retreat."

"That's very comforting."

The man dropped his casual pace once he realized that Sherlock and Molly were waiting for him to catch up. He jogged up to them and introduced himself as Mark Davies. Sandy blonde hair, lightly tanned skin, brown eyes, medium height and build, blandly handsome. The perfect type to blend into almost any crowd. Also a damned good spy. Sherlock could detect only a few things about the man that weren't part of his fake persona, and most of them were inconsequential.

"Our proprietor checks out, no ties at all to Moriarty. He's usually in the city during the week, but they're getting ready for the holiday weekend. Wife is upstate until tomorrow. I haven't caught sight of Moriarty or Moran in town since this morning. I did get a good look at the house and it's completely secure. State of the art security system, possible booby traps, even. I met with our Homeland Security contact earlier today. I see you found the firearms he provided."

Davies handed Sherlock a card bearing only the name Michael Hernandez and two phone numbers.

"We're only to contact him under extreme duress. I'm assuming that means only if we need to get rid of any bodies or to be treated for injuries that would arouse police suspicion. I'm certain Moriarty will contact you soon. We'll meet again tomorrow after Dr. Watson arrives. A late breakfast should be casual enough."

He shook Sherlock's hand, then Molly's and turned, resuming his casual stroll back toward the light house. She pulled her cardigan tightly around her and walked in the other direction. Sherlock caught up to her, putting his arm around her shoulder and letting her lean against him as they walked.

"One loves the sunset, when one is so terribly sad."

"What?"

"It's just—It's from _The Little Prince_. I read it as a child, a lot. And then , after my dad died, my grief counselor assigned it."

"You got homework from your counselor?"

"Yes. I mean, most of the work you do on your own. But, it just came to my head. It usually does when I get the chance to see a sunset. But it seemed—it's just really dreadfully apt right now."

They had reached a more populated section of beach, so they turned and walked east again. As they approached the path to the road, she laughed softly.

"What is it?"

"It's silly."

"All the more reason to share."

"When I first met you, it had been years since I'd read that book, but one of the first things I thought about you was that you hadn't been tamed."

He sniffed indignantly.

"It's not like that," she continued. "It wasn't that you were wild. It just means you hadn't really made any ties, with others. None that you would admit to. And then I thought that John tamed you a little. And then, when we were trapped together, I thought that maybe I had managed to, a little more. And then I saw you with Violet, when you held her. I was barely conscious but I looked from her face to yours and I've never seen anything like it. And I thought then, 'She's done it. " She'd tamed you, irrevocably."

"That's the furthest thing from silly I have ever heard."

She smiled and there was something like relief in her eyes.

Something welled in him, a realization that despite their hopes, their odd little family might not return to England together. The knowledge that no matter the outcome, they wouldn't be in limbo any longer, but it could still be devastating.

"Let's go back, now," she said, grabbing his hand. The relief replaced by what he could only describe as hunger as she walked backward a few steps, pulling him forward.

They clattered into the house and kicked off their sandy shoes just as Wayland came into the living room.

"Oh, hey! Looks like you enjoyed your walk, got some color in your cheeks! Something came for you while you were gone," he said, handing them a small square envelope.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, shoving it in his pocket. "Excuse us. We'll retire now. Jet lag, you know." He nodded curtly at the man and pulled Molly up the stairs. He got her in the room and slammed the door, pressing her against it, his hands cradling her face.

Her lips were salty from the brief time they'd spent on the beach and as he kissed down her neck he discovered the taste of the sea on all of her exposed skin. She shrugged out of her cardigan and pushed his shirt off of his shoulders. He pulled his t shirt over his head and calmed himself enough to safely remove his gun from the holster, placing it on the table by the door. Then he pressed against her again, untying the little straps that held her dress up, and pushing the smocked bodice down. Her breasts were bare. He'd known she wasn't wearing a bra the second he'd seen her in this dress, but there had been other things to think about. Now it was only this. Her creamy little upturned breasts with their hard pink nipples, and her voice, already breathless, saying his name.

Then she was pushing him away, but only toward the bed, sitting him down on the edge. He expected her to climb onto his lap, but she knelt in front of him.

"Molly, you don't have to do that."

"I want to," she said. She undid his belt and unzipped his shorts. He lifted his hips as she pulled them down and off. She spent some time stroking him through his pants before removing those, too. She held him in her hand and ran her thumb lightly around his retracted foreskin. As she looked up at him, he realized that this didn't have to be merely an act of dominance and submission. Then she put her mouth on his cock and for the first few seconds the world went silent and white.

As he came down from the first wave of sensation, he gently stroked her already wind tangled hair and appreciated the view of her back and arse as she leaned forward. When had she taken off her knickers? Or had that been him?

He needed her underneath him.

"Molly," he said.

"Hmmm?" she replied without pausing. The sensation caused by the vibration in her throat rendered him speechless for several seconds.

"I need to be inside you," he said finally.

She released him from her mouth and rose to her feet in front of him. He took her by the waist and simply looked at her, taking in every inch of her. He pushed himself onto the bed and she followed, lying down next to him. He pulled her toward him, kissing her deeply and lightly slipping his fingers between her legs. She sighed into his mouth, saying his name again as his finger glanced across her clit. He rolled on top of her and let her hand guide him. She lifted her hips as he moved forward and again the world was quiet save for the sounds of their shared pleasure. As he moved inside her, as slowly as possible in his current state, he thought he would never get over this, how every time it felt completely new.

He looked to his left, at their entwined hands, the ring on his finger glinting in the fading sunlight, and all he could think about was how small her hand was in his, but how perfectly it fit anyhow.

As the pressure built, he put his other arm underneath her shoulders, to bring her closer. No matter what, she never seemed _close_ enough. He let go of her hand and she wound both of her arms around his neck as his free hand sought her swollen center. Only a few circles with his thumb and she was shaking beneath him, her hands gripping his hair. She bit into his neck to keep from yelling his real name loud enough for the entire house to hear. It broke the skin, the pain ripping through him at the same time as his orgasm. She clapped her hand over his mouth as he came, her name muffled and his groans silenced. She moved her hand to his cheek as he stilled, and pushed his sweaty hair from his forehead with the other.

"I love you," she said. She said it simply, with no question or expectation behind it. A statement of a truth that had hung in the air between them for years.

He breathed it in, let it fill in just a bit of the void, and drive out just a bit of the darkness.

Her words met the ones crystalizing in his mind, and he knew them to be true. And as the words passed his lips, it turned out to be the easiest thing he'd ever done.

"I love you, Molly Hooper."


	59. Chapter 59

Sherlock always loved the sea for the mysteries it held, the beauty lying in the unexplored depths more so than in the color of the water (save where it related to environmental conditions) or slow reveal of a beach at sunrise. When, as a boy of five, he had proclaimed to Mycroft that he wanted to be a pirate, it was because he had a vague idea that they were merely explorers. Mycroft had lent him his copy of Treasure Island, which had effectively shattered those illusions. When he found him sulking in the garden, he took him to their mother's library and pointed out the collection of Jacque Cousteau books. Sherlock had spent a year obsessed with the sea and its creatures before he discovered chemistry.

He sat in one of the wicker chairs on the gallery, watching the sun rise over the ocean and smoking a cigarette he'd pinched from Wayland's desk drawer when he went downstairs in search of a letter opener. He'd woken up after a short bout of sleep (they hadn't slept more than a couple of hours at a time all night) and remembered the envelope that Wayland had given them earlier.

Molly stirred when he sat up in bed, murmuring to him and running her finger down his spine. He leaned over and kissed her before telling her to get some rest. He pulled on his shorts and made his way down stairs. The office door was unlocked.

He'd cut open the envelope over the blotter on Wayland's desk and examined it under the rosy glow of a Tiffany banker's lamp.

It contained a notecard, plain white, heavy stock with a vellum finish. Hand engraved monogram. "M" for Moriarty, no pretense. He had addressed the envelope to their aliases, and the note itself to Sherlock and Molly.

_Dearest Sherlock and Molly,_

_Congratulations on your recent faux nuptials. It's so adorable, like an episode of a detective show where the leads finally get to do it. I suppose you two are past all of that, though. _

_In celebration, Bastien and I would love to have you over for a very intimate dinner party. I insist that you bring the good doctor as well as your photographer friend. _

_Tomorrow at 7. You know the address._

_Cheers,_

_Jim_

He let Molly sleep. He would let her sleep until she woke naturally, to give her a few precious minutes or hours of oblivion. His phone lit up with a text message. John telling him he had landed and would be there in two to three hours. He'd seen Davis jogging on the beach, and had been tempted to go down for a swim, but he didn't want to leave Molly alone.

Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette and wished he had stolen a second one. The bedsprings creaked as Molly got out of bed. He looked behind him and caught the briefest glimpse of her nude form going into the en suite. He laughed inwardly at his possessive pride at seeing how she moved, slowly and carefully, her muscles as sore as his when he'd gotten out of bed.

When she emerged, she stopped to put on his t shirt on her way out to the gallery. Something else he realized he would never tire of. She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned down to kiss him. Her hair somehow still smelled of the sea, though the fragrance mingled with their sweat. When she stood up, she noticed the envelope in his hand and her burgeoning smile fell away.

"Oh," she said. "I forgot about that."

He pulled her into his lap before handing it to her, holding her tightly as she read it. When she finished, he took it from her to prevent her wadding it up and throwing it. Her body shook with the effort of controlling her sobs.

"I just want it to be over. Whatever happens. I don't know how much longer I can do this."

"I know," he said, and let her cry. She did it as quietly as she could manage, which he knew had to physically hurt. He rubbed her back and smoothed down her hair until she lay still.

"Do you ever let yourself think about—about how it would be, if we get her back?"

"All the time," he said. It was the first time he had admitted it to anyone. "Mostly about showing her things, how the world works, all of that. But also just little things, like giving her a bath or folding her clothes."

Molly laughed. "Would you index all of her baby grows and sleepers?"

"Of course."

"Get her a little deerstalker hat?"

"Let's not get carried away."

"I don't have any siblings or cousins, but I used to babysit, and sometimes as a teenager I babysat overnight for this couple, and I always loved how their little girl was in the morning. So tired and warm and snuggly but not grumpy like grownups can be. And I just want that, some rainy mornings with my little girl telling me about whatever she dreamed or what she wants to do that day."

His throat grew painfully tight. "That sounds—nice." He swallowed and cleared his throat. "I got a text from John. He should be here in an hour or so. We'll meet up with Davies and strategize."

"Is there any point in doing that?"

He closed his eyes. The most dangerous thing right now would be for her to lose hope.

"Of course. Even if we're going into an untenable situation, we have to have a plan or three."

She nodded and they both fell silent as the sun inched higher in the sky and traffic increased on the road. She traced circles around his nipple with her index finger, causing him to shiver.

"We should shower," he said.

"Okay."

She brushed her hair while Sherlock adjusted the water temperature. The big claw foot tub reminded him of the one in Ireland, but the retrofitted shower in this one was far more luxurious. He stepped under the warm, steady stream and closed the curtain. The steam smelled of sweat and cigarettes at first, reminding him of showers taken after being out all night, wandering from club to club not to dance, but to get his fix, to observe with fewer streams of information turned on. His heart rate increased and he was hit with a massive craving but then Molly stepped into the shower and he looked into her enormous brown eyes. She didn't calm him completely, but made him believe that peace might be within reach.

She chose a sandalwood scented body wash from the assortment on the shelf and asked if it was okay.

"It'll do," he said, and pulled her toward him. He didn't feel particularly aroused; he only wanted contact. He did kiss her, however, enjoying how the water changed the taste of her lips. The slipperiness of their lips together amused him, and he stepped away smiling. He took the shower gel from her and they began the very serious business of bathing each other. She kicked him out when it came time to wash her hair, so that she wouldn't be distracted. Before he left the bathroom, she poked her head out of the shower curtain.

"Hey."

"Yes?"

"You're not going to get weird on me again, are you?"

"Define 'weird.'"

She narrowed her eyes.

"No weirdness beyond the usual," he said, coming back over to kiss her soundly. "Come downstairs when you get out. Wayland will be leaving to pick up his wife at the train station as soon as John arrives."

"Don't plan anything without me."

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"Yes."


End file.
